Sam and Dean Who?
by Obstreperous Wookie
Summary: Riley discovered supernatural creatures existed when a vampire tried to eat her and she ran him over with her car. Things got even weirder when two brothers roll into town, seemingly well versed in killing anything that goes bump in the night. OC point of view.
1. Vampires, Who Knew?

Disclaimer: The Winchesters aren't mine *sigh* all hail King Kripke and the CW.

A/N: We all know Sam and Dean pretty well at this point. We also know their backstory and can understand why they are so good at their jobs. But one thing the show never really seems to go into is what happens when normal people run into the Winchesters and see two crazy guys running around killing things. So this is an attempt.

Please review! Even if it's only three words. "I like it" or "It needs work" would be awesome! :)

* * *

I had just killed someone with my car. Oh my gosh, I was totally going to jail for vehicular manslaughter.

Panic compressed my chest into a tight knot, and when I tried to detach my hands from the steering wheel, they refused, unrelenting in their death grip on the cold leather. My knuckles were practically creaking, even, with how hard I was clenching it. Oh my gosh, oh my gosh. I was only seventeen, and I was going to jail for the rest of my life. Goodbye social life, goodbye texting. I was a killer.

At least that's what I thought. When the man I had supposedly killed starting stirring back to life in front of my car, I screamed and threw it into reverse. Then, with a screech of rubber, I stopped backing up and threw the car into first, running the man down again. There were two horrible thumps, and then his limp form appeared in my rearview mirror. I slammed on the breaks, hyperventilating in a pathetic mess as I sagged against the steering wheel and my seatbelt.

But hey, at least I'd remembered to put my seatbelt on while I was being chased down _by an honest-to-goodness monster_.

And it wasn't like I'd actually planned to be hunted by a friggin' vampire. I wasn't Bella Swan, searching out monsters and conveniently isolating myself in the woods to reveal that I knew their secret. I was way smarter than that.

So when I found myself running for my life, regardless of my completely logical and mentally stable life choices, I was less than pleased. I hadn't even been making sketchy decisions like walking home alone. In the dark. Late at night.

No, freaking Chomper McBloodsucker had sought me out in at the veterinarian clinic where I worked in the middle of the day. Here, I accidently hit this dog, and also, you smell nice; would you like to see my freaking fangs?

My brothers had taught me how to take care of myself, though. You don't grow up with three ridiculously athletic older siblings and somehow not learn how to tackle or kick a guy in the nads. It simply wasn't possible.

That's what I had done actually—kicked the guy in the nads. He had set the injured dog on the table, and I'd whipped out my phone to call Sarah, the actual Vet. I was only a volunteer, really. But since it was a small town, I did a lot more than just clean out cages and exercise the animals. Not that it mattered.

Either way, Sara had been on her lunch break, and I had started to call her. Except, when I had turned back around, the man had stepped closer to me and opened his mouth with a creepy hiss. "You smell nice. I knew you were the one," he'd hissed—_hissed_. Who even does that? Well, vampires, I guess. Vampires apparently hissed, who knew?

When his fangs had slid down, an entire row of pointy death spikes, I had nailed him in the goonies and blasted out the back door. I was by no means a track star, but adrenaline does things to a girl's top speed. I swear, if any college scouts had been there to see it, I might have actually gotten a scholarship. Lord knows I needed it.

But now…now I was huddled in my car, having run down a man who was trying to eat me. And honestly, those little "Five Steps to Help Guide Your Future" pamphlets the guidance counselor kept throwing at us didn't exactly cover vehicular manslaughter or how to deal with a bloodsucking maniac.

And it wasn't like I had planned to run him over. Well, the first time, at least. I had just been trying to get out of there, and Chompy had stepped in the way of my little Honda Civic. Then of course, I had willingly and maliciously run him over the second time. Yeah, I was menace. I probably needed some type of mental health check. I should look into that—if I made it out of this alive.

I was still hyperventilating, and getting more than a little lightheaded, when there was a tap at my window. I screamed again and slapped the lock down, before catching a glimpse of the person standing there. It wasn't Chompy. A quick glance in the rearview confirmed he was still down for the count. In fact, there was a giant man leaning over him, and he was using what looked like a machete to chop off Chompy's head.

I covered my mouth with a hand, completely horrified, but I didn't scream. I was done screaming. Another tap at my window, however, and I was friggin' horror movie starlet material. Ok, maybe not so done screaming.

I unbuckled quickly, hit the button that would lock the rest of the doors, and scooted to the middle of the car. Middle of the car, furthest point from any window. Why did that still not fill me with confidence? Oh, right, because _my day had just turned into some kind of horror show_.

"Whoa, easy there tiger. No need to freak out," the guy at my window said. As if finding out vampires were real and watching a real life decapitation weren't reason enough. Then there was the whole gun thing.

He must have seen me staring, because he glanced down and caught sight of the gun in the hand he had used to tap on the glass. "Oh," was all he said. Then he straightened and shoved the gun in the back of his pants before leaning down to peer through the window again. Yeah, dude. Putting your gun away made it totally better.

Green eyes stared at me past a strong jaw covered in light, reddish stubble, and the guy ran a hand through his spiky brown-blond hair. He looked nice enough, in his leather jacket and jeans, I supposed. But with the whole gun and machete thing, I wasn't really willing to chance it based on sheer attractiveness.

"Look, we're not here to hurt anyone," he said, trying again. I flashed a quick glance out the back window, where the tall one was wiping the blood off his machete, and then back at the one in front of me. His mouth went flat when he saw my dubious look. "Not here to hurt _you_," he amended. "Look, kid. Just open the door. We'll explain everything."

I shook my head, utterly petrified. No way was I going to get out of the car and talk with two homicidal weirdoes. Yes, they had just killed the vampire who was trying to eat me. And yes, I had just been trying to do the same thing a minute ago—albeit somewhat unintentionally. But still, common sense told me to stay in the car, and I was inclined to listen.

The guy threw up his hands and stepped away. "Fine," he snapped. "Stay in there." He turned and paced a few steps away. I cautiously eased back into the driver seat while he wasn't focused on me. "Sam," he called back to the tall one, "let's move the body before anyone else sees it. Geez, vamps hunting in broad daylight. I don't like it, Sammy." Oh my gosh. Lunatics, homicidal lunatics, the both of them.

I started the car and jammed it into first, surging forward and out of the parking lot. The shorter one chased behind me for a few feet, yelling something unintelligible and throwing a hand in the air, but I didn't care. I just wanted to get home.

Home was normal. Home was safe. Home didn't have monsters in it that shouldn't have existed outside of fiction.

That was the theory anyways. Sometimes life has a way of discarding theory and cheerfully kicking you in the face. Who knew?


	2. Vampires Are So Not Edward Cullen

Disclaimer: The Winchesters aren't mine *sigh* all hail King Kripke and the CW.

A/N: We all know Sam and Dean pretty well at this point. We also know their backstory and can understand why they are so good at their jobs. But one thing the show never really seems to go into is what happens when normal people run into the Winchesters and see two crazy guys running around killing things. So this is an attempt.

Please review! Even if it's only three words. "I like it" or "It needs work" would be awesome! :)

* * *

Flinging open the car door, I booked it up the walkway towards the house, feeling like a kid making a beeline for bed after turning the lights off. Rationally, I knew I was probably safe crossing fifteen feet from the car to the house, but mentally, I was still a blabbering mess.

Bounding up the front steps, I blew through the door and slammed it behind me. Then I did something I rarely ever bothered to: I clicked the deadbolt into place.

Eagle Point wasn't that big of a city, somewhere just shy of nine thousand people. It was one of those places where everybody knows everybody, and half the kids you grew up with ended up marrying their high school sweethearts and staying close to or in the city for the rest of their lives. Hardly anyone locks their doors here. There's never really been a need.

Until now.

After sliding the bolt into place and turning the little knob on the door handle, I raced to the kitchen. The only other door in the house was in the kitchen, facing out into our backyard. Unfortunately, it was a big sliding glass door, which meant someone could just break through it if they were really motivated. But I locked it anyway and dropped the piece of wooden dowel in the track to stop it from sliding open even a little. Then I drew the curtains and slumped down at the kitchen table, losing myself in my thoughts.

Vampires. Vampires were real. And, of course, one had tried to eat me.

This was _not_ how I had envisioned my weekend starting out.

My parents were gone, celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary with a special week long cruise. Normally, their absence meant my brother, Jake, would throw a small party at our house with his friends on the football team. But this weekend, Jake had a training camp with the team, and he wouldn't be back until tomorrow night, which meant that I had the house to myself—my other two brothers having left for college years ago. And they rarely came back unless it was the holidays or they ran out of quarters for laundry.

Either way, normally, Jake's absence would mean I could dance around the house singing Disney songs and watch a movie while eating the ice cream right out of the carton. What seventeen-year-old girl didn't relish the small independence of having the house to herself? Normally, I would find great pleasure being alone in the peace and quiet. No brother, no parents, no judgment for slovenly eating habits or terrible dance moves.

But today was not normal. Today, after finding out that vampires were real and that they wanted to drink my blood, I was sitting all alone in a big, empty house.

Today, my home no longer felt safe.

Today, _I _no longer felt safe.

In fact, all I really wanted to do was hide under my bed and pretend like I hadn't seen that sharp row of teeth slide downwards.

_You smell nice. I knew you were the one._ That's what the vampire had said, and I didn't know what he'd meant by it. The one what? I was just a random high schooler, working part time at a veterinarian clinic.

I sat bolt upright, my mind spinning in frantic circles. I had totally just ditched work. More importantly, I had ditched Sara. Oh my gosh, Sara! I had completely forgotten about her. What if she went back to the clinic? What if those two guys had killed her? The short one had said he was only there to hurt the vampire, but where had they even come from? They could be homicidal maniacs for all I knew.

I grabbed my phone, dialing Sara's number as fast as I could. She didn't pick up. So I tried again. It rang three or four times and went to voicemail, but I didn't leave a message. The third time I called, it went straight to voicemail. So, hesitantly, I told her that I wasn't feeling well, and that I had gone home. Then I hung up, a vague unease prickling in my stomach.

Sara always answered the phone. The woman could be comatose, and she would drag herself back to reality to answer her phone. So why wasn't she now?

Maybe she was busy, I reasoned. Maybe she was fixing the dog that had been left at the clinic by the vampire. Maybe she was still at lunch.

_Maybe she's dead_, part of my brain whispered.

I jolted to my feet, pushing the chair back with a loud scrape and breathing hard. Sara _was not_ dead. I was simply being dramatic. I'd been through a fright today, and my brain was acting up. That was normal…right?

Nonetheless, I went to the kitchen and grabbed the first thing that could make do as a weapon. It turned out to be a spatula, which was all but useless. I frowned at it and traded up for a big butcher knife.

Staring at myself in the stainless steel blade, I pondered how bizarre it was that I thought I could even defend myself against a vampire with it—how bizarre it was that I was even contemplating doing so. I was holding a freaking butcher knife, for heaven's sake. Who even does that?

Crazy people, that's who.

I still took it with me to my room, though. It wasn't completely irrational, mind-numbing fear, I rationalized as I settled on the bed and stared at the door. It was simply a precaution. Yeah, precaution. Because who knew what could come through that door at this point?

* * *

It was several hours before my muscles got painful enough to urge me towards movement. Several hours of being frozen in spot while I worked through dozens of grisly scenarios where I hadn't escaped Chompy the vampire in time. Several hours of waiting for something to burst through that door and try to kill me.

I think the pain in my muscles sparked some sort of logic circuit in my brain, and I finally started to calm down enough to realize I was being irrational. I hesitated then squared my shoulders and took a good long look at myself in the mirror on the far wall.

I was sitting cross-legged on my bed, still wearing my jeans and a hoodie. I even looked almost normal. Well, at least I would have if there wasn't a knife clutched in my hand and a slightly manic look in my eyes. Yeah, I might have looked a little scared.

Oh, who was I trying to kid? It was full blown terror that had kept me sitting on the bed, white-knuckle gripping the knife for the past three hours—full blown terror that, even now, kept my mind in overdrive as I envisioned vampires storming my house and trying to kill me.

"No," I gritted out harshly. "You are a Stewart. And Stewarts don't sit on their asses and snivel in terror. So you're going to get up and do…something." With numb fingers, I released the knife and let it drop onto the bedspread. Then I unfolded my legs, wincing as each movement was painful and stiff. But the pain was good, though. Pain made me bold and more than a little bit heady. Bold and heady, I could work with. Terror, I could not.

I stood up, reveling in my newfound courage, and got my laptop off the floor. Booting it up, I laced my fingers and shoved them outwards, slightly disappointed when I didn't hear a crack like in the movies. "Whatever," I mumbled, typing in my password.

The little clock in the bottom right hand corner of the screen put me at a little past four, and my stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn't actually eaten lunch yet. But I didn't get up and go to the kitchen. No way did my courage extend that far. Instead, I leaned over and pulled open the drawer of my nightstand, fishing out my rainy day stash. It was little more than a package of Pop-Tarts and Hershey's chocolate bar, but it was better than nothing.

I stuffed my face with S'mores flavored pastry followed by plain chocolate as I typed, brushing away the crumbs as I evaluated article after article about vampires. There was almost too much to take in, and I had no way of verifying any of it. Wikipedia was definitely out, and Dracula didn't quite match up with Chompy's general description. Most of it was just garbage. In fact, I blamed Twilight for the recent vampire craze. There were too many sites where the lore was based on Stephanie Meyers junk.

One particular website had me snorting in disgust. "How To Tell If You're Boyfriend Is A Vampire," it promised in bold black letters. I perused down the list with mounting displeasure. No, Chompy did not sparkle. No, he did not have a lilting accent and fabulous hair. No, he did not steadfastly refuse to drink my blood. No, his skin was not like ice. No, his lips were not—

I slammed my laptop shut, disgust—for one second—burning through the fear that was lurking in the back of my mind. It was a respite, even if only a short one, to not feel scared.

My shoulders slumped, and I yawned, realizing that I had logged some major hours researching. My, how the time flies when you're…having fun. Or feeling obsessed. One or the other, I wasn't feeling particularly inclined towards either.

A yawn worked its way from my mouth, and I scrubbed a knuckle across my eye. Originally, I hadn't thought I would be able to sleep tonight, but right now, I was highly optimistic. Maybe now that the fear and terror were just dull sensations in the back of my mind, I was burnt out. Yeah, that was probably it.

I set the laptop on the floor and paused, contemplating changing into some sweats and a ratty t-shirt. Then I just shrugged, exhaustion making that option seem like too much work. So, in my jeans and hoodie, I slid under the covers. The lights stayed on, though. They were on throughout the house. A girl's courage only goes so far when she's home alone. In the same vein, I also kept the knife close—right under my pillow, actually. That's what people in the movies did, so I figured it would work for me.

Then, with one last yawn, I closed my eyes and tried to fall asleep.

After about a minute, I put the knife on the night stand because it was too big and bulky under my head, and I also might have been slightly afraid of killing myself in my sleep. After that, though, it didn't take long before my brain muddled through its last thought and dropped off into troubled sleep.

* * *

I had nightmares. That much was a given.

Chompy chasing me into the parking lot—me unable to get into my car.

Chompy catching me in the clinic because I couldn't run away fast enough.

Chompy suddenly looming over me as I tripped and fell like a nincompoop, just like in every stereotypical chase scene.

Giganticus in the rear window, decapitating Chompy with a wicked looking machete.

Those ones were bad, but the last one was probably the worst. Chompy was standing too close to me in the clinic, his mouth near my ear. "You smell nice. I knew you were the one," he whispered over and over again in my dream.

I shuddered awake, squeezing my eyes tightly shut as I broke free from the cold fingers of the nightmare. _It's not real_, I told myself. _Chompy's dead_.

Only, the whispering didn't stop now that I was awake.

"I smell you. You smell so nice. You must be the one," repeated the voice in the same eerie whisper Chompy had used.

My eyes snapped open of their own accord, and suddenly I was staring straight up into a mouthful of teeth.

I screamed.


	3. Biting Is NOT Foreplay

Disclaimer: Yada yada, Winchesters, not mine.

A/N: I should be studying for my microbiology exam, but I am procrastinating. Who knew the brain would kick out such creative things on the eve of having to actually buckle down and do some work. Anyways, more Winchester involvement to come in the next chapter. Tally ho!

Also, I got one review, and it totally made my day! There's a little box at the bottom where you can tell me what you think... :)

* * *

Waking up sucks, period. Waking up to find that your nightmare has followed you into reality sucks worse. The second after I opened my eyes and screamed, adrenaline poured through my system, and I became critically aware of four things.

One, screaming like a banshee doesn't work very well against vampires.

Two, I happened to know that knives work just fine. Except my knife was sitting on the nightstand about a foot to my right.

Three, for some odd reason, my mouth tasted like dried blood. I wasn't sure if I had bitten the inside of my cheek during a nightmare or what, but there was definitely crusty blood in my mouth and on my teeth.

And four, the vampire above me was not Chompy, which meant there was something seriously wrong with my theory about "I knew you were the one" being a harmless statement. Two vampires in two days. It's a wonder I wasn't dead yet. And since I wanted to continue not being dead, I need to act—preferably sooner rather than later.

So I did.

My mouth snapped shut, cutting off mid-scream, and I lurched to my right, fingers scrabbling across my nightstand for the knife. The vampire hovering over me was a woman this time. Not that it mattered, I was proudly gender indiscriminant—especially when it came to people trying to kill me. And trying to kill me, she was. As soon as I moved, she stopped her creeper-status hovering and practically dive-bombed my neck.

My fingers finally grasped the hilt at the same time Mrs. Chompy's teeth broke skin. I screamed again, this one less terrified and more pained. It was like a dozen needles stabbing me in the neck, and it freaking hurt. There was one upside, though. Because her face was pressed to my neck, she didn't see the knife coming.

She was straddling me, effectively pinning me in place. It didn't give me a whole lot of momentum, but then again, I didn't need it. I brought the knife up at an angle and slammed it into her side. For a second, it grated horribly along her ribs before finally sliding in between and burying itself up to the hilt.

Needless to say, she got off me pretty quickly.

I shoved her off with a buck of my hips, scrambling out from underneath her. Pressing one hand to my neck, I could feel the throbbing burn of the bite and the slick blood leaking from it. My other hand flew up to my mouth, suppressing what would surely have been the vomit eruption of the decade. I had just stabbed someone. I had just intentionally buried a knife in someone's side.

It was horrible. So much worse than hitting Chompy with my car. Part of me was convinced this was all just a horrible dream. I wasn't a violent person. I wasn't. The most violent thing I'd ever done before this vampire nonsense was push Nick O'Brien down the slide in third grade because he'd kissed me.

There was some twisted humor in that, I decided. Except now, instead of a sweetly stolen kiss on top of the jungle gym, I was facing the frigging "Kiss of Death." And it wasn't even a kiss, really. It was a bite. A frigging bite.

Granted, "Bite of Death" just didn't have the same ring to it, but I had more important things to worry about. Like how I had just stabbed a vampire and she wasn't even fazed.

I scooted off my bed and almost collapsed on my face, unable to anticipate just how woozy I truly felt until I'd stood. Still, by staggering and using the wall for support, I made it to the door.

Unfortunately, last night I had erroneously assumed that locking and then tying the door shut would be a good idea. Mrs. Chompy had totally bypassed my extra security by climbing in through my window, which now meant I was left to fumble at the knots with slow, clumsy fingers that were not totally cooperating with my hazy brain. Finally, I gave up, spinning around to face Mrs. Chompy head on.

She had moved off my bed, but wasn't attacking me. Instead she seemed to be waiting. Then—because I was watching her, I think—she gripped the blade with slow precision and drew it it out of her side with ghastly amusement. I had to fight the urge to vomit—that's how wrong it was. Mrs. Chompy tilted her head to the side, revealing all her teeth as she gave me a creepy smile and took a few menacing steps toward me.

I backpedaled quickly, bumping into my dresser as I ran out of empty space behind me. Twisting in place, I saw the lamp sitting on the end closest to me, and its light practically stabbed me in the eyes. With a hiss of pain, I grabbed it and hurled it towards her, ripping the cord from the socket in the process.

What I hadn't expected was for Mrs. Chompy to have some sort of vamp speed. But she did, and she blurred towards me before appearing right in front of me. As a result, my turning back to hurl the lamp at her was more of a weirdly timed blow that shattered the lamp against her shoulder and barely knocked her backward.

She snarled, a balled fist snapping out and smacking me across the face. I was already positioned against the dresser, so it was mostly just my head that went flying backwards. Pain flared in my jaw from her blow just before the back of my head cracked into the wall. Hard.

My entire body went limp of its own accord, and I kind of noodled to the ground as my vision went twisty and my thoughts got muddled. I tried to get to my feet, but they didn't seem to be cooperating, so I ended up crawling across the floor to get away from Mrs. Chompy. The vomit I had been holding back earlier came flying up, and I crawled right through it on my way to the wall.

Mrs. Chompy, for her part, just stood with her hands on her hip, shaking her head and tsking at me like I was nothing more than a naughty child. I scuttled away from her, until my back hit the wall, and watched with a pounding head as blood starting to bubble from her ugly smile. Blood was also spreading on her shirt, and I could see the hole in the material where my knife had been. _Bad, bad, bad,_ was the only semi-coherent thought I could piece together in my wobbling head.

A weird noise started from somewhere. It was like whistling wheeze, sharp and wet against my ears. It shouldn't have hurt to listen too, but suddenly every noise started to hurt my head. I could hear liquid bubbling, and I was finally able to match it with Mrs. Chompy's breathing. _Wheeze, whistle, wheeze_, went her lung. I must have punctured it with the knife. _Bubble, slurp, bubble_, went the blood in her mouth.

"Stop," I grated out thickly, somehow getting my tongue to form the words. Every intake of breath from her was like someone was dragging a metal file across my brain. I covered my ears, but it didn't help. "Stop it. Stop. Stop it!" My words sounded like I was shouting them through a megaphone, but even they didn't make the repulsive wheezing and bubbling stop.

And, to top it all off, I could suddenly hear a heartbeat. _Bum, bum. Bum, bum._ It wasn't my heart, wasn't Mrs. Chompy's, either; that much I could tell. _Bumbum bumbum bumbum bumbum_. _Wheeze, bubble, bubble_. I whimpered against the sharp bursts of pain in my head, hoping the cacophony of noise would somehow stop. But there were two heartbeats now, and they were pounding like a twin base drums in my head. _Wheeze, whistle, bubble_. _Bumbumbumbumbumbumbumbumbumbum_. Faster and faster the heartbeats went, and with them came pounding footsteps, but they sounded like they belonged to giants. The ceiling light was too bright, and there was too much noise, and I screamed, pain splitting my skull in two.

The door exploded inwards a second later—a shattering earthquake to my newly sensitive ears. The bulk of it slammed into Mrs. Chompy, sending her flying backwards. Wood chips and splinters flew too, and a sharp burst of heat across my cheek let me know I'd been hit by one. I didn't care though. I was dizzy and suddenly feeling like I was on fire, so not much bothered me at this point.

I slipped sideways, letting my cheek rest against the cool wood flooring, as a man entered the room right behind the exploding door. He was the one from the parking lot, not the tall one, but the one who'd tapped on my window with his gun. He didn't have his gun with him, now, though. No, right now he was all machete. I giggled at that thought, but sobered quickly enough when I realized what was coming.

Sure enough, Door-kicker Machete Man crossed over to Mrs. Chompy in a single stride and yanked her sideways. Or upright. I couldn't figure it out. It looked sideways to me, but then maybe I was the one who was sideways as I lay on the floor. I giggled again, wondering why I couldn't stop. This was serious…or was it? I couldn't tell anymore. There was something tickling at the far reaches of my mind, though—something I was supposed to remember. Oh yeah. He was going to kill her, and I didn't want to watch.

Even as I thought it, he raised the machete and brought it down in a broad arc. I closed my eyes before it happened, but even I couldn't miss the horrible wet sound it made. Blood droplets hit my face, another byproduct of his swing, and I opened my eyes.

I really shouldn't have.

Mrs. Chompy's body wobbled and fell to the ground with a dull thump, blood leaking across my wood flooring. _Messy_, I noted, feeling lightheaded and fuzzy. _Messy, messy_. Her head was already down here, eye level with me and only a few feet away. I shuddered slightly as her eyes stared through me—wide open and empty. _Goodbye bite-y lady_, I thought. _Don't come back another day_. I giggled when her extra row of spiky teeth slid upwards and disappeared from sight. Then I stopped when some compassionate part of me remembered she had just died like two seconds ago. Laughing at dead things was wrong.

Boots appeared in front of me, blocking her from sight. I was grateful for that, because I wasn't been able to pull my gaze away by myself. The boots were followed by knees, and then someone was touching my shoulder and my neck. The world tilted for a minute, then steadied, and I found myself sitting up again.

Concerned green eyes floated in the center of my vision, and I vaguely wanted to reach out and touch them. Then a nose came into focus, lightly spattered with freckles. After the nose came the rest of the face, and I pieced together who it was. Door-kicker Machete Decapitation Man. Oh. "You okay?" He asked in a gruff voice. It was a nice voice, but it sounded kind of tinny and far away. I squinted, trying to figure out of it was his voice or my hearing that was being weird, but then I realized I was supposed to answer the question.

Was I okay? I was breathing, so that was a check in the pros column. I had stopped hearing the heartbeats for a little bit, so that was another check. I was bleeding and my head felt really funny, so that went in the cons column. But all in all, I was going to go with a yes.

I opened my mouth to tell Decapitation Man that I was fine, but something very different from words came out—something chunky and sour—and it splashed down the front of his shirt.

Oops, I called to him faintly, feeling very peculiar all of a sudden.

Then I closed my eyes, letting the darkness wash over me in a nice soft wave.


	4. Who Says You Can't Go Home?

Disclaimer: Still not my characters. Except Riley—she's pretty much me.

A/N: Still procrastinating, who needs to study? Hope you guys enjoy.

* * *

I woke up disorientated and loopy, with the slimy, sharp taste of bile in my mouth. My right hand twitched, unconsciously searching for the reassuring hilt of a knife that wasn't there. There was a sharp ache in my left wrist, but I didn't mind. It was helping me to center myself back in reality. Like the words I could hear buzzing in the distance. It took me a while, but eventually I was able to focus enough to understand what was being said. When I did, though, I wasn't exactly pleased with that I heard.

"Riley Stewart, seventeen, just a regular kid. But get this, Dean. She doesn't have any early hospital records, and I couldn't find a birth certificate on file. I mean, her medical record basically starts at age three. I found basic documents for each of her brothers, but not her. No immunization records, no vaccinations, nothing. Wherever she was born, it wasn't here."

They were talking about me. No birth certificate. Not born here. They were talking about me, but they were wrong. They had to be.

I didn't have any time to contemplate that specific dilemma because my stomach turned sharply, letting me know I was about two seconds from erupting like Mount Vesuvius. I groaned and wiggled to the edge of the bed, just in time for someone to shove cold and round against my dangling shoulder.

It took me half a second to realize it was the rim of a garbage can, which became relevant when I was suddenly spewing the contents of my stomach. Surprisingly, nothing but liquid came up. Still, I heaved uselessly for a good minute before my body was satisfied. At that point, I was too tired to readjust myself, so I just lay there half hanging over the edge of the bed as someone took the trashcan away.

Gentle hands half rolled, half pushed me back onto the bed, but I batted them away with surprising vengeance at first thinking they belonged to a vampire. Then I remembered what had happened before I passed out. The second vampire that had come after me was dead—all thanks to the two guys that had impeccable timing.

"Whoa, reigning puke-fest champion is awake, Sam." It was the same gruff voice that had asked me if I was okay right before I'd passed out. I tried to send a scowl in his general direction, to tell him I wasn't amused by his nickname, but it was hard when I didn't actually want to open my eyes. Plus, I _had_ kind of puked all over him. Maybe I did deserve the nickname.

I gave up trying to glare and diverted my meager energy supply towards my brain, trying to kick it into gear. Sam…that had been the tall one, the one who'd decapitated Chompy in the parking lot. Which meant Dean was the sarcastic trashcan buddy who had saved me last night. Sam and Dean—excellent timing, not so excellent violent tendencies. Still, I was willing to overlook the double homicide due to the fact that it was also a double murder attempt starring myself as the victim.

So that left me…where? Acceptant that they had saved my life? Yeah, I could work with that. If I just focused on that part, then I would be fine. I _would not_ focus on the fact that they decapitated vampires on a regular basis or that they had tracked me to my house or that they had somehow gotten a hold of confidential hospital records.

Yeah, they saved my life. Twice. I was just going to stick with that.

Mental deliberations over, I opened my eyes. Daylight was peeking through the edges of the drawn curtains, but it didn't hurt my eyes like it had last night. My vision wasn't swimming either, and there was no longer a base drum beating against the sides of my skull. Good, that was all very good. It didn't change the fact that I had no idea where I was.

There was another single bed between me and the door, and it had a hideous floral comforter, which had me leaning towards a cheap hotel room. The clunky alarm clock sitting on the tiny table between beds was a giveaway, too.

"Morning sunshine," said the same gruff voice, breaking me away from my inspection of the room. Then, more seriously, it added, "How you feeling?" I sat up slowly, feeling achy and tired, but not nauseated, which was a blessing. The shorter man—Dean, I reminded myself—was standing next to me, his face lined with worry. Worry for me? Worry because of me? I wasn't sure.

There was a sharp pinch at my left wrist, and I looked down to find a needle and tube taped to it. Dean must have seen my curious look, because he hastened to explain. "It's an IV. You've, uh, been unconscious for a couple days. And the last few hours you've been puking like a freshman at their first kegger." He smirked like that was supposed to be funny, and I gave him a blank look. He lost his grin. "You can probably take it out, now that you're back in the land of the living." He reached for my wrist, but I pulled away before he could touch me. I didn't even mean to. My body was partially on autopilot, and physical touch was not high on the list of allowed behaviors—right along with prolonged periods of movement and keeping things down in my stomach.

If Dean was offended by my hesitance, he didn't show it. Instead he backed away and sat down on the edge of the bed across from mine. "Okay, do you want the good news or the bad news first?" I stared at him balefully, not sure I wanted any news at all.

He ran a hand across the light stubble on his jaw. "Bad news, then. Well, kiddo, you were dosed with vampire blood, and you went through a partial transition. Bright lights, loud noises, thirst for blood—the whole thing." He hesitated, studying me with those serious green eyes like he expected me to react, but I was too tired and burnt out. When I didn't say or do anything, he shrugged and went on. "The good news is that while detox is a bitch, you were comatose for pretty much the whole thing."

A light bulb went on in the back of my head, the first sign that I didn't have permanent brain damage. Blood, I had woken up last night—no, it was two nights ago, now—with dried blood in my mouth. _Dried_ blood, which meant Mrs. Chompy had fed it to me sometime in the night, long enough before I woke up that it had dried. Which meant she had been watching me sleep for who knows how long. I shuddered, my hand twitching again, and I longed for a blade to hold. Realistically, the knife hadn't done me much good; however, having one would definitely make me feel better.

Dean looked relieved when I shuddered, like he was glad I was at least showing some type of emotion and wasn't a robot. He almost looked like he wanted to reach out and reassure me that I was safe. I didn't want him to touch me, though. I didn't want anything to touch me right now. I wrapped my arms across my stomach and pretended like I wasn't about to have a mental breakdown.

"I need to…" I started to say, but it was just a wispy rasp. My throat was too dry to make the words come out right. There was a touch at my shoulder, and I jumped, skittering back against the headboard as terror flooded through me in a tidal wave of mindless panic. My vision got very narrow, and I was suddenly lightheaded—though that was probably because I was hyperventilating.

The tall one—Sam—was standing there with a glass of water in one hand. He held up his free hand in placation. "Whoa, take it easy. Just, uh…here." He took one slow step forward and extended the glass warily, looking sorry for having startled me.

I got my breathing under control, slowly extending my knees from my chest and easing back towards the center of the bed. Jeez, I must look like a complete basket case to them. I took the water from him with what I hoped was a grateful smile and drank it, one slow sip at a time. It slid down my throat, seeping into the dry, acid burned tissue like a balm, and when I tried to speak again, words actually came out. "I need to go home."

Dean gave a sharp laugh, one without any humor in it, and rubbed the back of his neck ruefully. "Yeah, about that. Sam and I did some checking while you were…" He paused, waving a finger at the bed before continuing. "Uh, comatose. There's at least one vampire left in Eagle Point. Most likely two." I stared at him, uncomprehending. I felt like that's all I did anymore—stared.

"You can't go home," he said finally. "The vampires want you for something. Bad enough to track you down and try to turn you. So as long as they're out there, you're not safe. You can't go home, sorry." Dean tensed, like he expected me to fight him about it, but I couldn't muster the energy.

"Okay," I said dully, laying back down and turning on my side so I didn't have to think about or face him. I did run through a brief overview of what he'd said, though. One, I'd been partially turned into a vampire. Two, I was apparently back to normal now. Three, I'd been in a coma for two days. Four, there was still another vampire, maybe two, out there looking for me, which meant I couldn't go home. And five, I was apparently not even born in Eagle Point. Awesome. That was just awesome.

The bed across from mine creaked as Dean stood, and his footsteps were heavy as he moved away. "I think she's in shock," Sam said to Dean, as if a whispered conference at the foot of my bed was going to keep me from hearing. He might have been right, though. I could've been in shock, because all I wanted was to just lay there and float in my misery and self-pity. Yet even as the lost feeling swelled and washed over me, the practical side of me won out. That and the sudden, acute urge to brush my teeth.

I sat back up, fighting the flipping in my stomach and the whirling in my head. When I cleared my throat, they both turned to me, wariness practically radiating off them. I took a breath, suddenly overcome with shyness. "Can I, uh, brush my teeth? Or…or at least take a shower?"

They were startled, I could tell, but they recovered nicely. "Yeah," Sam said quickly, turning in a circle to glance around. He frowned, apparently not finding what he was looking for. "I can run out and get you some…stuff." He glanced at Dean, and Dean shrugged, giving a slight shake of his head. I looked back and forth between them, trying to figure out the problem. Oh. They didn't know how to buy stuff for a girl.

"I can make a list," I said tiredly.

"Yeah, yeah. Good idea," Sam said, snagging a piece of motel stationary and a pen off the table holding the TV. I took the pen with shaking fingers and struggled to write down even the simplest block letters. Apparently logging some serious coma hours did things to muscle strength and coordination. Even so, I managed to get the basics down. Deodorant, toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a hairbrush were all I really wanted.

Actually that was a lie. The pen slipped from my tired fingers after writing the hairbrush down, so I decided to call it quits. I think Sam understood, because he took the list from me and picked up the pen without a word. I watched as he gave Dean a nod and left, feeling stupid because all I could think about was how much I didn't want him to go.

Because for some reason beyond my pitiful logic, Sam and Dean made me feel safe.

Sam and Dean who? I didn't know. I only knew that I felt marginally less likely to die when they were around. I shook my head at the absurdity and turned, startled to find Dean watching me. I glanced quickly down at my hands, embarrassed. Blood flecks on my skin and under my nails caught my attention, and I scrubbed at them ruthlessly with a finger, trying to get them off.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Dean said. I looked up at him and quickly caught the cell phone that came flying through the air. He stepped closer and dropped into a crouch next to me, getting on my level as I stared down at my phone and ran a thumb over the screen. "You can let them know you're alright, but you can't tell anyone where you are. It's not safe. Not for you, not for them. Capisce?"

I nodded silently, because I really did understand. If vampires wanted me bad enough to track me down at my house, it was better that my family was far away. From me. I was a walking danger zone now, and I would continue to be until Sam and Dean found a way to kill the other one or two vampires. So yeah, I understood just fine.

My phone lit up when I turned it on, flashing me a cheery "good morning" message. _Yeah, if only_, I grumped mentally. When the normal screen came up, I cringing at the sheer number of missed calls and texts. All of the calls and most of the texts were from Jake. A few of the texts were from random friends, but they were all on vacation during the school break, so the messages couldn't have been too important. There was nothing from Sara, however, and it sent a cold prickle through my stomach. I pushed past the unease and dread and went straight to dialing Jake's number.

He picked up on the first ring. "Where have you been? I've been trying to call and text you for like two whole days!" He was pissed, but more than that, I could hear the worry behind his angry words. After all this craziness, it made me feel good that he at least cared. Jake wasn't exactly known for thinking outside his world of one.

"I lost my phone for a few days, only just now found it. You know me." Technically, I _had_ been comatose for a few days with no clear knowledge of my phone's location, so it wasn't even a lie. Besides, I was always putting it down and leaving it random places. It wasn't that unbelievable.

Jake snorted. "Whatever. The camp is over, but I'm out at the lake with Theo's family. Won't be home until next Monday."

"Okay," I said dully. I should have been ecstatic. He didn't know I was gone, didn't know there was a dead vampire in our house, didn't know how close I had come to dying. Yet at the same time, I wanted him to come home and be with me. It was selfish and irrational, but I still wanted it.

Someone yelled in the background for him, and he yelled something unintelligible back. "'kay, later," he said to me, which was his version of "love you, bye." Then he hung up, leaving me empty and sad inside. I didn't even know why. Maybe the vampire blood detox was making me overly emotional and clingy. Who knew? I wasn't exactly an expert on that type of thing.

I flopped onto my back and laced my fingers behind my head, staring up at the staccato ceiling and wondering how my life had gotten so crazy. I never got very far in my thoughts, though, because my brain kept looping back around to the same set of questions. Why did the vampires want me? What made me so special? And why would my parents lie to me about being born here?

I sighed, not noticing how my eyelids seemed to droop lower and lower. I was still pondering the questions when I dropped off to my first real sleep. And this time, the nightmares stayed far, far away.

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A/N: Please, please, please review! :) I would love to hear your thoughts or things you want to see in the next few chapters.


	5. Showers Are Simple, Winchesters Are Not

Disclaimer: Not my Winchesters.

A/N: Sorry it took so long to get the new chapter up! If any of you watched the season 9 finale, then you will understand my emotional trauma. Haha, but really I was just studying and doing homework for the bane of my existence—Microbiology. Anyways, I should finish a new chapter this weekend, because...duh...it's the weekend. Thanks for reading! :)

* * *

"—ley," someone called sharply.

I woke up—warm, cozy, and with no one trying to turn me into a monster. I didn't even freak out when I felt someone shake my shoulder roughly. "Riley," barked the voice again. I recognized it this time—Dean. It was still a struggle to open my eyes, though. They didn't want to cooperate. I battled them nonetheless, and eventually my heavy lids crept upwards enough for me to see Dean leaning over me. "You still with us?" He asked, concern coloring his voice.

I blinked slowly and then gave him a funny look, the fuzziness of sleep starting to fade. "Yeah, I'm fine," I murmured, my voice still thick and raspy.

He frowned, forehead wrinkling slightly. "I've been trying to wake you for almost a minute now."

I yawned and flapped an unconcerned hand at him as I sat up, causing the jacket that had been laid over me to slide into my lap. It was tan, bulky, and probably big enough to fit some type of herd animal. "Sam's?" I asked, slightly amused, as I stared down at it. I could have used it for a tent—it was that big.

Dean snorted, which was answer enough, and tossed it on the other bed when I handed it to him. "Speaking of Sam, he's back. I thought you'd want to hit the shower."

I glanced down at myself, surprised to see I wasn't wearing my hoodie. Surprised I hadn't noticed it was gone earlier, yes. Surprised it was gone, no. There had probably been enough blood and vomit on that thing to classify it as a level three biohazard.

My t-shirt wasn't quite as bad, but it was still pretty gross. And if I was being honest, a shower two days ago would have been good. Now, however, a shower was imperative. Well, only if I didn't want to fumigate the motel room through sheer body odor.

There was a single rap at the door, and Sam walked in, grocery bag in hand. He flashed a quick, distracted smile in my direction. It was just token politeness, though, because his thoughts were clearly somewhere else as he passed the bag off to me and tossed a set of keys to Dean. I grabbed the bag and made a beeline for the bathroom, not wanting to be in my sweaty, stinky shirt any longer.

* * *

I don't know how long I spent standing under the hot water. Enough that my skin turned red, and I felt slightly drowned. I needed it, though—that much I knew. The hot water seemed to wash away everything that had happened these last few days. It let the world drop out of focus just for a little while, which was something I had desperately needed. In fact, it was so blissful that I was almost loathe to get out. But I did, knowing I couldn't avoid my problems any longer. Sighing, I shut off the water and prepared to face the world again.

My jeans weren't too bad, if you looked past the small splatters of dried blood, which I most certainly did as I pulled them on. My shirt could have joined my hoodie in the toxic waste category, though. There was no way I could wear it again. But it was okay because as I dug the last item out of the bag, an absurd amount of gratitude flooded through me for Sam who had thoughtfully picked up a shirt at the store. It was gray and boring and a size too big, but it was clean. And right now, clean was important to me. Well, mostly important, I corrected as I glanced down at my jeans.

I yanked off the tag and slipped the shirt on before pulling my hair free of the collar and impatiently running a brush through the wet strands. Then I hesitated, setting the brush down slowly and steeling myself to do the one thing I had avoided thus far. With a hesitant swipe of my hand, I rubbed the steam off a section of the mirror and studied myself.

I looked bad. Not ugly, just…sick. Almost like a druggie. My skin was pale, and my cheekbones were standing out like gaunt beacons. My hazel eyes—normally made bright and alive by the small golden flecks in my irises—were dull, and there were bags under them, which I didn't understand. I had been in a coma for two days, and if that wasn't restful, then I didn't know what was. Still, despite feeling fine, I looked like I might keel over at any second. No wonder Dean had been so worried when he couldn't wake me.

How I looked wasn't important, though. There was only one thing I really wanted to check. Leaning in towards the mirror—dread making me sick to my stomach—I pulled my lips back in a weird grimace. Then I gently probed my upper gums with a finger.

No curved teeth slid down and I couldn't feel anything different, which sent a shuddering sigh of relief through me. I wasn't a monster. Dean had said I wasn't, but I had needed to check for myself. And now I knew. I closed my eyes and shuddered again, letting my forehead rest against the mirror for a second. _Not a monster_, I repeated over and over to myself.

There was a knock at the door, and I jumped. "You alive in there?" It was Dean, still in helicopter mode. Though if someone looked as bad as I did, then I would be frequently checking them for signs of life, too.

I backed off from the mirror and gathered my things. Then I carefully balled up my old t-shirt and shoved it into the plastic bag, tying it shut. I was definitely going to have to find a dumpster somewhere, because there was no way I could just put it in the trashcan in the room. Which reminded me that I had vomited…repeatedly…into the room's trashcan. Oh joy. Just one more thing that needed to be cleaned.

I unlocked the bathroom door and pulled it open, glancing up at Dean. "Still fine," I said, my voice sounding almost normal now that I spent time inhaling the shower's humidity. He moved backwards, studying me as I slipped by him. I ignored him, making my way to the nightstand between the two beds. The bed I had slept on was stripped of the comforter, which was balled up in the corner. I didn't blame them. It was probably just as nasty as my t-shirt.

When I reached the nightstand, I pulled open its single drawer and dropped my stuff in with a noisy clatter. As soon as the stuff left my hand, my fingers twitched slightly, still seeking the knife like a misplaced comfort blanket. I glared at the fingers, simultaneously willing them to loosen and chastising my rebellious right hand.

When they finally did relax, I turned back to Dean with a questioning look, holding up the stinky t-shirt bag. He held out a hand, and I tossed it to him before looking around for the trashcan. It was sitting by the bathroom door. I walked over to it and peeked over the rim warily, half expecting to be assailed by noxious fumes.

It wasn't too bad. One of them had rinsed it out, but I carried it to the bathroom to wash it more thoroughly. I took more time than necessary—doing things like waiting for the water to get warm and haltingly dribbling soap down the inside—to give myself time to sort out my thoughts. A minute later, something startling occurred to me, and I stopped scrubbing.

"Hey, Sam?" I called, leaning towards bathroom doorway. He had been hunched over his laptop, typing rapidly, when I had gone out to give Dean the shirt, so I had no doubt he would hear me.

"What's up?" He called back to me.

"Vampires are real," I said thoughtfully, more to myself than him. He didn't answer, probably picking up on that, and I pursed my lips, formulating my whirling thoughts into an actual question. "So are werewolves real, too?"

"Uh…" He hesitated, like he wasn't sure if he was supposed to tell me or not. "Yeah," he said finally.

I started scrubbing the metal can again, letting his answer sink in. Then another question popped into my head. "What about ghosts?" My friend Libby swore up and down that her house was haunted, but I had never really given it much credence.

Sam didn't say anything, and I stopped scrubbing again, waiting for an answer. "Well?" I asked gingerly, really hoping they weren't.

"Yeah," Sam called back to me tiredly. "Ghosts, too." Then he continued. "A lot of things are real."

My eyes went big, and I frowned, because I could have done without that last bit of information. Lordy, it was like I was living in a whole new world. "I see," I said slowly. "And people don't know about these things, how?"

Sam let out a huge breath, and I stuck my head out of the bathroom to look at him. He was leaning back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. I couldn't tell if he was exasperated with me or not. He definitely looked broody from the back, though. "People see what they want to see and explain away things they don't. And, well, if they encounter something truly supernatural, then chances are they're probably going to die."

Wow, cheery sentiment. He didn't sugar coat it or anything. Then again, I didn't want him to. I wanted the truth. Or at least I thought I did. Leaning against the doorframe, I tilted my head to the side and bit my lip as I thought through it. "And you guys travel around just, like, um…killing things?"

He rubbed a hand down his face, nodding. "Yeah, uh, Dean and I, we're called Hunters."

"I see." I chewed on my lip some more. Hunters. The name fit. There was just one more thing I wasn't quite sure about. "And Dean is your…"

"Brother," Sam offered quickly—quickly enough that I wondered how often they got asked that question. "Dean's my older brother."

Older brother, yeah I could see that. He had the whole bad-ass "You Mess With Sam, You Mess With Me" vibe going. "Does it bother him that you're taller than he is?" It was the first thing to pop out of my mouth, and it made Sam snort. I couldn't help but grin, knowing Neal and Aaron would go crazy if Jake ever got taller than them.

Sam was saved from having to answer when the door opening again. Dean was back. My grin faded as I moved my attention back to business. Vampires were hunting me, and I needed to know why. I turned back to Sam, all joking aside. "You said you couldn't find my birth certificate, that I wasn't born here. What does that mean?" _And why would that make the vampires want me?_ I added silently to myself.

His brow wrinkled, like he was surprised at my sudden shift in conversation, but he answered me anyway. "It means you were born in a different state. And either your parents didn't transfer your records over, which is unlikely, or…" Sam trailed off, leaving me hanging.

"Or what?" I demanded. His mouth twitched into a frown, and he ducked his head almost guiltily. I looked over at Dean, trusting him to tell me if Sam wouldn't. He delivered.

"Or you were probably adopted," Dean said bluntly.

My mouth opened and closed uselessly while I struggled to find words. "Probably adop—what?" Adopted? I wasn't. My parents would have told me. They would never keep something like that a secret. "No, that can't be right," I said, the flatness of my tone brooking no argument.

Sam shifted in his chair, gesturing helplessly with a hand. "Riley…"

"No. You're wrong. You didn't look hard enough or something." Even as I said it, I knew it wasn't true. Back when he had first talking to Dean about this, Sam mentioned finding birth certificates for my brothers. I didn't know how he had gotten his hands on them, but regardless, mine should have been right there with them.

Should have, but wasn't.

Could I be adopted? I mean, I didn't really look like the rest of my family. They all had dark hair and dark eyes, and I had light hair and hazel eyes. They were all tall and lean, and I was shorter and stockier. But I was still in the realm of possible genetic variation, wasn't I? I could still be related to them. They were my _family_…

Weren't they?

I shook my head, angry with myself for even doubting it. Of course, they were my family. I was _not _adopted, and I was going to prove it. "I need to go home," I said firmly.

Dean shook his head. "Not going to happen, kiddo."

"You can come with me," I reasoned, trying to come up with more justification as to why they should let me. A plan slowly started to take shape in my mind, and I nodded as it came together enough to verbalize. "Yeah. Yeah, you can come with me while I go home and get some clean clothes. And then while we're there, I can check my parent's strong box. They have all our documents and important stuff in it."

Dean didn't look quite sold, so I tacked on one more reason, hoping it wouldn't bar me from leaving altogether. "Plus, the vampires might be staking out my house, so you might just find them there instead of having to track them or whatever you do."

He hesitated then caved. "Fine, you can go home. But," he said, checking his watch and rubbing a hand over his tired face, "we're waiting until tomorrow." I was about to protest when he held up a hand. "Look, I need at least four hours of sleep, you need to eat something, and Sam needs to figure out how many vamps we're up against. We're waiting until tomorrow." He gave me a look that let me know it wasn't up for discussion.

I sighed, but decided to let it go. He was right, too. I had taken up one of the beds for the last two nights, which meant they had probably taken turns sleeping in the other. That couldn't have been easy, and Dean _did_ look pretty exhausted. Plus, aside from the Pop-Tart which didn't count because I'd thrown it up, I couldn't remember the last time I had eaten. I only knew that it had been pre-vampirepalooza.

"I'm going to make a food run. Sam will stay with you," he said, fishing the keys from his pocket. I waved a dismissive hand at him, recognizing his words for what they were. Sam would stay here to protect me, but he would also be staying here to make sure I didn't get any ideas about running off on my own. My parents made those double edged statements all the time.

My parents. Of course they would be off on their anniversary during the one week where my life seemed to be turning upside down. My throat closed up a little, and I turned away from Dean, not wanting him to see how close I was to crying. There was an empty seat across from Sam, but the table was tiny, so I just spun the chair to face the room in order to give Sam the most room while he worked.

Dean walked out, and a few seconds later a deep rumble started up in the parking lot. I wondered what kind of car he drove, because it sounded pretty bad-ass. Then, just for a second, I pictured Sam and Dean traveling across the country in a minivan. It was ridiculous enough that I had to grin, and it definitely helped lighten my mood.

Behind me, Sam's fingers flew across the keyboard. I slid down in my chair and tilted my head back so I could study the ceiling. My stomach growled almost painfully, reminding me just how empty it was, and I scowled, trying to think of something to distract myself. "Hey, Sam?" I asked quietly.

His typing slowed, and he answered almost hesitantly. "Yeah?" I suppose I deserved his wariness. My track record for asking nice, normal questions was approximately non-existent.

"How do you kill a vampire? I mean, aside from the whole decapitation thing." It was something I had been wondering for a while now, especially since stabbing Mrs. Chompy with the knife hadn't done much good.

"That's pretty much it," he said abruptly. I could tell he didn't want to talk about it, but I still had questions.

"Does a stake help?" I didn't think it would. Then again, what did I know?

"No," he said flatly. Monosyllabic. That was fine. I could work with single syllables if they still formed answers.

"Garlic?" I asked curiously.

"No." He sounded annoyed, but I couldn't stop myself.

I pursed my lips thoughtfully. "Crucifix? Holy water?"

"No." Then he relented a little. "Not for vampires." Almost like those were options for hunting something else, which they could very well be. _I_ didn't know these things.

"What about sunlight?" Mrs. Chompy had chosen to come into my room at night, but Chompy had chased me into the daylight. Obviously a little exposure wouldn't cause them to spontaneously combust.

"Like a sunburn," Sam said tersely, which was a less than satisfying answer. I would have felt better if he had said it caused their blood to boil or something. At least then I could pretend I was safe during the day. But a sunburn? Yep, that was way less than comforting.

My questions subsided for a while, and I stared up at the ceiling in silence. I think Sam was relieved.

After a couple minutes, another question popped into my head, but I did my best to hold it back. I lasted maybe thirty seconds before it came blurting out. "How do you know what research is true? I mean, I looked up dozens of sites about vampires, and none of them said anything about decapitation. How do you know what information is good and what's not?"

I sat up and turned to look at him, genuinely interested to hear his response. But Sam's face folded into a frown and he shoved his laptop away in clear frustration. "Look Riley, you're a good kid. You have a family and a nice life. You don't want to get involved with this stuff, okay? It might seem new and exciting right now, but trust me it's not. Our life? It's different. Hunters don't grow old and have families. You still have a chance at a normal life. When Dean and I are done here, things will eventually go back to normal. So you need to just let this go, okay?"

He wasn't mad per se, but there was definitely something in his voice. Frustration? A hint of bitterness? I didn't know him well enough to really tell, but I could see where he was coming from—even if I didn't totally agree.

"Okay," I said quietly, humoring him. I wasn't going to just pretend like none of this was happening, and I somehow doubted my life could just go back to normal. Nonetheless, Sam was clearly tired of my questions, and there was no reason that I couldn't give it a rest. For now. Sam settled back into his chair, placated for the time being as he stretched out his long legs and readjusting the laptop.

My hand twitched into a fist, like it had earlier, and I had the sudden urge to find something sharp to defend myself with. I looked down at my fingers, which were clenched in what I could only guess was muscle memory. Muscle memory developed over a span of four or five terrifying hours? It didn't seem plausible. Then again, neither did vampires.

That wasn't the point, though. Right now, I wanted a knife or a weapon. I _needed_ one, just to make me feel safe. I—a girl who had never picked up a weapon with the intention of harming someone—was desperately seeking a knife as my choice of comfort.

As much as Sam wanted me to try and be normal, I just didn't see that happening. It was already too late. I frowned, wondering if I was being overly dramatic about the whole thing. I had no way of knowing and nothing to compare my experiences to. The only thing to do was to wait and see.

"Okay," I repeated softly to myself. _You're going to be normal, Riley_, I told myself sternly. _This is non-negotiable_.

Then, while resting limply on my thigh, my hand twitched again, fingers closing longingly on a hilt that wasn't there.

Yeah, normal.


	6. Sleep Is Overrated

Disclaimer: Winchesters. Not mine.

A/N: As promised, another chapter. I swear, they just keep getting longer. Now, I'm off to study. I keep saying that, but I really mean it this time...kind of. :) Anyways, review? Pleeeeeeaaasssseeeee?

* * *

Dean didn't take long to get back with the food. He held two bags of fast food up by way of greeting, and I raised my eyebrows. If this was how they consistently ate, then I did _not_ understand how they were in such great shape. Maybe hunting things was a really good workout. Not that I was complaining—about the fast food…or about them being in shape, really. Either way, at this point, I was hungry enough to appreciate greasy dollar menu items.

There were only two chairs at the table, so Dean ended up sitting on the corner of the dresser holding the TV. He opened one of the bags and dug out a round, wrapped bundle. "Alright, I got the goods. Crispy chicken sandwich for Riley." He tossed it to me, and I practically salivated as I unwrapped it. "Bacon cheeseburgers for me," he continued, pulling two burgers, "and rabbit food for Sammy." Sam rolled his eyes, but accepted the plastic box of salad nonetheless.

I shook my head, standing and spinning my chair around to face the table. I spread my wrapper out on the table and opened my sandwich, rearranging the lettuce shreds and chicken patty to my satisfaction. Sam cleared his throat, frowning absently as he popped the container of salad open and speared a tomato with his fork. He ate it, leaving the fork in his mouth for a second as he swiped a finger across the mouse pad.

I caught a glimpse of a face on the screen, and surprisingly enough, it was a face I knew. I did a double take, leaning sideways to get a better view. "Why do you have a picture of Mr. Stro—"

I dropped off when I actually saw it more clearly. It was one of those morgue pictures—the type where you see the chest and head of the person against a stark metal table. I'd seen them enough in cop shows, but to see one of someone I recognized was totally different. Mr. Strom didn't look like the friendly old man I knew him to be. He just looked dead, with a wound on his neck that matched the one on mine, and it made my chest ache. Vampires had killed him. Vampires that had been looking for _me_.

"Uh, you knew him?" Sam asked. He angled his laptop away from me, trying to be subtle, but I noticed it anyway, and I was grateful. Because try as I might, I couldn't drag my eyes away from the screen until he forcibly broke my sightline to the picture. I swallowed hard, looking down at the table, my appetite suddenly gone.

Then, remembering that he'd asked me something, I nodded as I picked at the table's cheap laminate surface with a finger. "Yeah, Aaron—my older brother—and I used to mow his lawn for him. Well, Aaron did. I was like nine, so I used to just sit on the porch and eat ice cream bars with Mr. Strom while we watched Aaron mow. He didn't have any family, so I think he was just lonely."

Every Saturday for a year, I had spent an hour blabbering away to that wrinkled old man about anything and everything, and he had dutifully listened, like my words were the most important thing in the world. I frowned, remembering how sweet and kind he had been. He didn't deserve to die like that.

No one deserved to die like that.

"No family means no one to miss him," Sam said quietly. "His bo…he…wasn't found as quickly that way." I stared down at the table, thinking how sad that was. If I was gone, people would miss me. My family, Libby…but no one had missed Mr. Strom—not right away—and that seemed kind of horrible.

Sam pushed his salad away for a second, twisting in his chair to conference with Dean. "They're hunting smart. This makes six deaths, counting the trail of four leading up from Ashland."

Dean sighed, balling up the paper wrapper from one of his burgers and throwing it at the now clean trashcan. "So how many you thinking? Two? We need to find these sons-of-bitches before they drop any more bodies."

Like it was that simple. Kill them before they kill anyone else. Something inside me changed, and instead of the drowning feeling of my constant fear, there was a speck of cold forming in my chest. It was icy and calm and furious, and I couldn't tell if that was worse than being scared.

"Hey," Dean said softly, nudging my shoulder and breaking me out of my thoughts. "Eat." I looked down at the sandwich in my hand, and I ate it, but I didn't really taste it. All I could think about was kind, old Mr. Strom, and how much I wanted the vampires to pay.

My hand twitched again. But this time I wasn't weirded out or nervous about it. This time I wanted a knife, for entirely different reasons. Reasons that didn't involve self-defense.

Sam and Dean left me alone in my thoughts for the rest of the evening. I took up residence in the hideous overstuffed chair in the corner and basically retreated into radio silence. I think they at least partially understood how lost and overwhelmed I was feeling, because they let me be.

Time passed. Dean puttered around cleaning guns and other various weapons, and Sam remained hunched over his laptop, typing and reading away. They made some calls, but that was about it. Eventually Dean's hummed melodies and random old-school references grew incoherent enough that Sam closed the lid of his laptop and rubbed his eyes.

"Two vamps," he announced, dropping his forehead onto a hand. "Judging by the body count and patterns of bites, that's how many we're dealing with. I haven't found any recent missing persons reports, but if they've turned anyone since being here…" Dean nodded thoughtfully, dropping down to sit on the edge of the bed, the one that was now Riley-Toxic comforter free. Sam stood up and stretched, practically able to touch the ceiling. "Bout time?" He murmured tiredly.

"Yeah," Dean agreed with a yawn. "I could use a siesta." They both turned to look at me, and I shrugged, completely indifferent. I wasn't tired, but it was clear that they were. Dean yawned again—glancing at the beds—and narrowed his eyes. I could practically see the gears turning as he did the math.

He turned to Sam, who was already flattening one hand out and making a fist with the other. Dean scowled and matched him. I rolled my eyes, watching as they played rock-paper-scissors over a bed. Dean threw a scissors and Sam threw a rock.

"Shut up," Dean said, even though no one was talking. "Best two out of three."

Sam shook his head, moving his bag to the open bed. "Not a chance, dude."

"I can just sleep in this chair," I said, breaking my silence for the first time in hours. Dean's forehead wrinkled, and he looked like he was going to say something, but I went on quickly. "Just give me the one man tent, and I'll be fine." I motioned with a finger to Sam's enormous jacket as I said it, and Dean snorted.

"Hah, hah. Very funny," Sam said, but he gave it to me anyway.

They both stretched out on the beds and were asleep in minutes, which I found quite impressive. Usually it took me forever to shut my brain off enough to go to sleep. Clearly, they didn't have that problem. Lucky ducks.

I sighed, shifting in the chair. It wasn't very comfortable, but that was okay. I didn't plan on sleeping tonight, not when headless bodies and dead friends were seared into my retinas and floating foremost in my brain.

I sighed again, huddling down behind the makeshift blanket that was Sam's jacket. It draped over my shoulders and down the front of me nicely, creating a barrier between me and the world. It smelled good, too. Kind of like gun powder, cheap soap, and a faint sweaty, guy smell. It was nice—safe, even.

Or maybe I was just strung out and exhausted from the last few days, and it was causing me to form exaggerated emotional attachments to objects that weren't mine. That's probably what my best friend, Libby, would say. She was really big into the psychology and psychoanalyzing thing. It didn't help that her parents were therapists.

Whatever, it wasn't important. I snuggled down sideways and rested my cheek against the back of the chair. The clock proclaimed it midnight, but I wasn't tired, which meant I had six or seven more hours of trying not to think about why the vampires might want me or why my birth certificate was M.I.A.

Yeah, tonight—or technically this morning—was going to be just awesome.

* * *

Sam woke up exactly at six without even using an alarm clock, which I thought was even more impressive. Although when he suddenly sat up and turned to look at Dean, it _did_ scare the crap out of me. But it was sweet, I thought, that his first waking action was to look for his brother. I wondered if my brothers ever felt that way about me. _If they are even your real brothers_, sneered the nasty voice in the back of my mind. _Shut up, you_, I mentally called back, only slightly disturbed that I was arguing with myself.

And I also felt slightly like a creeper, just sitting there and watching Sam as he reached down to his duffel to dig out some clothes. He hesitated and, after a quick glance in my direction, went to the bathroom to change. A minute later, he came out wearing basketball shorts and a ratty shirt. After casting another watchful glance over Dean, he gave me a half-wave and headed out the door.

I sighed, stretching my legs out for a second before pulling them back behind warmth and comfort of the jacket. I frowned, wondering vaguely if Sam would notice if said jacket mysteriously disappeared. I snorted at the thought and chastised myself for turning my thoughts towards robbery. Day four without family contact, and I was already on the path to crime.

"You get any sleep last night?" Dean's question was sleepy and muffled, but it still startled me. I couldn't tell if he was still asleep or not, but then his head lifted off the pillow, and he eyed me through heavy lids.

"Yeah," I said, infusing cheerfulness that I didn't feel into my voice.

"Liar," he said slowly, calling me out on it as he dragged himself upright with a yawn.

"Yeah," I repeated, completely uncaring. Wow, contemplation of petty theft _and_ perjury within a minute of each other. I definitely needed my family, or at least Libby, to come back and keep me on the straight and narrow.

Dean looked over at me, and I was suddenly glad for the wall of Sam's jacket, because his intense stare was making me uncomfortable. "Sam went running," I dutifully reported, wanting him to stop pinning me in place with those knowing green eyes. He yawned and rubbed his face with a hand, finally looking away. I relaxed, feeling silly.

Then a few seconds later, Dean surprised me. "You want to talk about it?" His voice was quiet and gruff, and I could hear the sincerity of the offer within his words.

Did I want to talk about it? "No," I said, quite succinctly.

He snorted. "Good. 'Cause I don't do chick-flick moments." And just like that the mood shifted to something lighter. I was grateful, but not grateful enough to rein in the next of my seemingly unending bank of questions.

"Isn't it kind of, I don't know, dangerous for Sam to go running by himself? Knowing what's out there?" If I killed monsters for a living, I don't think I'd be able to go anywhere by myself. At least not without being heavily armed, which Sam hadn't appeared to be.

"Eh, Sammy can take care of himself. Besides, monsters don't tend to search us out, kind of what makes us Hunters." Dean quieted for a thoughtful minute, then turned and pinned me in place again with his heavy gaze. "You ready for this? If you go home, there's no guarantee that you'll be safe." The warning was clear enough, but unnecessary. I knew the risks.

I shrugged, finally pushing my legs out of my warm cocoon. "Yeah, well, I don't need safe. I just need this to be over." Over before anyone else got hurt because of me.

As if he knew what I was thinking, Dean shook his head. "This isn't your fault, you know."

I just looked at him. "Isn't it?"

"No, it's not," he said sharply and left it at that as he got up and went into the bathroom.

As Dean took a shower, I paced around the room and tried to figure out how this wasn't my fault. The vampires were here for me. I might not know why, but it was still on me. Anyone who died, well, that was on me, too.

Sam got back from his run, and I was saved from further self-incrimination, because he came bearing gifts. Coffee—my liquid lifesaver in a cup. And, even better, it was from my favorite coffee shop. He must have stopped off at Beanies on the tail-end of his run.

Dean appeared again, as if drawn out of the bathroom by the aroma of caffeine and deliciousness. He took one of the cups, and Sam replaced him in the bathroom. I sat in the chair, hands clutched around my precious drink, as Dean got things ready. He pulled out both of the wicked looking machetes and began running the blades over a whetstone. They rasped smoothly against the stone, making my hand twitch.

Unfortunately, Dean saw it, and he sent me a questioning look. I shrugged helplessly, not sure what to say in regards to my seemingly independent right hand. He hefted one of the machetes, holding it at eye level and sighting down the blade. Then he reversed it and offered it to me.

I stared at it with wide eyes, and my hand twitched again, this time in anticipation. I wanted to hold it; I wanted to pick it up, to use it. I wanted to so badly that it scared me. With slow, careful movements, I picked it up. My hand tightened around the hilt, and the vague feeling of missing something faded away. I let out a breath that I didn't know I'd been holding as I tested out the weight. It was heavier than I would have thought, but it felt…right. It felt like a part of me, which made absolutely no sense at all.

"Feels good, doesn't it? Safe, reassuring." I glanced up at Dean, seeing the understanding in his eyes.

"Yeah," I said quietly. Then I shook my head and handed it back to him. "Too good." He didn't understand, that much was clear, but I just shrugged instead of explaining.

Holding the blade made me feel strong and powerful, like I could do anything, and yet…I didn't want that. I didn't want to cut a vampire's head off. I wanted to stop being scared, yes, but I didn't want to be a killer. That wasn't me, and I wasn't sure I ever wanted it to be. _You didn't seem to mind running Chompy over in your car_, needled the nasty voice in the back of my head. I pushed past the thought with annoyance. Sam and Dean were strong, and they did what needed to be done. They did it so that others wouldn't have to, and right now, I was one of those others. And I was okay with that.

Dean opened his mouth to say something, but there was no more time for discussion. Sam came out of the bathroom, done with his shower, and we were ready to go. I grabbed my few meager things from the nightstand drawer and left the motel room without a backwards glance.

Sam and Dean followed me out—weapons stowed safely out of sight in jackets and duffels—and pointed me towards the coolest looking car I had ever seen in Eagle Point. It was long and black and menacing, and I was only partially sure that it wasn't a tank in disguise. Sam and Dean tossed their stuff in the backseat, and I climbed in next to the bags, excitement rising as Dean turned on the car. The engine purred, and I felt pretty bad-ass, even if only by proxy.

Dean pulled out of the parking lot, and I hunched low in the back seat while feeding him directions to my house. I didn't want anyone to see me with them, because, undoubtedly, it would be someone that knew me. They would probably wonder why I was with two much older strangers—men, no less—and would tell my parents. And my parents would, in turn, want to know exactly what I did during their absence, and there was no way I was going to bring up Hunters and vampires into our dinner time conversation. So, in the long run, it was just best that I stay out of sight.

It wasn't that hard, really. A few miles later, we were outside city limits and headed towards my house, which was a little ways out in the country. As soon as that happened, I only need to slouch down if I saw another car coming.

If Sam or Dean thought my antics were crazy, they didn't say anything. Something for which I was immeasurably grateful. Then again, maybe crazy took on a whole new meaning for them. Maybe my weirdness constituted as their normal. I shook my head, kind of awed at that thought, and focused on where we were going.

My house wasn't too far out, and we reached it within ten minutes. Dean drove past it, only pulling over when we were a comfortable distance down the road. "Got 'em?" He asked Sam.

"Yeah, just a second," was Sam's reply as he opened the glove compartment and fished out a pair of binoculars. They took turns studying my house, and I told them which windows were which. They didn't offer me a look, though, which I was slightly annoyed at, but then again, they were the professionals, so I didn't argue.

"Looks pretty clear," Dean murmured, eyes still glued to the binoculars. Sam grunted his agreement, shifting his long legs around uncomfortably.

My phone went off, startling us all, and I hurried to check who was calling. "It's the sheriff," I hissed, panic racing through me. "What do I do?" I was whispering even though there was no logical reason to do so.

"Don't answer it."

"Answer it."

The answers came at the exact same time, and I looked back and forth between Sam and Dean, unsure what to do in light of the mixed messages. Sam smacked Dean's shoulder lightly with a hand. "Answer it," he repeated without a trace of uncertainty, so I did.

"Hi, Bob," I said, trying to keep any dread or misgivings out of my voice.

"Hiya, Riley. I was calling to ask if you knew where Sara is? She hasn't been into the clinic for a few days, and I thought you might know." He didn't sound especially suspicious or accusatory, so maybe I wasn't going to be arrested or go to prison for the rest of my life.

"Sara's gone?" I asked, putting what I hoped was the right amount of confusion into the question. "Gosh, uh, she was there on Monday. That's the last time I saw her." That part was true at least.

Sam and Dean were both watching me carefully, probably looking for any indication that the conversation was going South. I rolled my eyes and pointedly turned away to look out the window, unable to stand their dual intensity.

"And you haven't been to the clinic since then?" Bob sounded uncertain on that last part, and I smoothly filled in an answer.

"No, I'm only scheduled to volunteer on Mondays and Fridays. Sorry." Another truth—mostly. I might be only scheduled two days a week, but I usually showed up every day, if only for a few hours. Still, Bob didn't know that.

A thought popped into my head, and I almost felt bad. "You could ask Jessie, though. She works on Wednesdays, so she might have a better idea of any plans Sara had or whatever." Jessie was Sara's assistant, but I already knew she wouldn't have any idea where Sara was either. Sara wasn't just missing; she wasn't answering her phone. Which, for Sara, was the equivalent of being…dead.

I faltered at that last thought, because it was something Sara and I joked about all the time. But now? Now it could actually be true. I swallowed hard, staring down into my lap.

"Alright, thanks for your help, Riley. We'll keep looking. Let me know if she gets in touch with you, okay?" He still sounded normal, if a little perplexed. That was a good sign. It meant he bought my story, which really was actually quite accurate and truthful. Kind of.

"Okay. Bye, Bob," I said, hanging up and feeling like a horrible person.

Dean smirked at me in the rear view mirror. "Sheriff Bob? That's adorable."

"Oh hush. He's a family friend," I said, reaching over the seat to slap his arm. I couldn't help but grin, though.

Then my grin faded as I looked over at my house. There could be vampires in there for all I knew. Now was not the time to joke around. Dean lost his smirk as well, getting into serious mode. "You good?" Sam asked quietly.

I glanced over at him and then back to my house. "Yeah, I can do this." And I wasn't even lying as I said it. I _could_ do this. If there were vampires in my house, they weren't there to kill me. Turn me, probably. Kill me, no. That put me one step ahead of them on that point. My stomach was roiling with apprehension, but it was no longer mind-numbing terror, and that put me a second step ahead.

I nodded resolutely and climbed out of the car. Dean climbed out as well, reaching inside his jacket and producing a syringe full of dark red liquid. I swallowed hard, knowing the red liquid was most likely blood. At this point, what else would it be?

"Think of this as a Vamp tranquilizer," Dean said, seeing me hesitate. Tranquilizer. I could work with that. I'd administered it to animals at the clinic often enough.

I took the syringe from him and stared down at it, biting my lip. "You have two minutes to draw them out if they're there. Then we're coming in," he said, dropping a hand onto my shoulder. I was ridiculously proud that I didn't jump. After a moment, I pulled my eyes away from the syringe to look up at them. They were both leaning against the car with genuine casualness, like hunting monsters was no big deal. "You can do this," Dean said, giving my shoulder an encouraging squeeze.

"I can do this," I echoed, though my words were way less confident that his. I took a deep breath and turned towards my house. _My_ house. I wasn't supposed to be afraid of my own house. Anger suffused through me, slowly starting to burn away my fear. It was my house, not theirs. Squaring my shoulders, I started walking, one foot in front of the other, and I didn't look back.

My steps ate through the distance like it was nothing, and soon enough, I was staring at my front door. _Ready or not, here I come_, I thought coldly. And with that, I pushed open the door and stepped inside.


	7. In The Midst Of Liars

Disclaimer: Winchesters, as they are not mine, I move to pass the motion that we confiscate them from the writers of Supernatural until such a day that they can treat Sam and Dean nicely.

A/N: Another chapter! Yay! Only two(ish) more to left. Off to class I go. Geronimo!

* * *

My house didn't seem friendly or inviting anymore, and as I stared down the hallway from the entry, I suddenly felt very small and lost in its expanse. There could be a vampire lurking behind any number of corners, just waiting for me to come in. That was probably the worst part, knowing they could be waiting for me but also that they might not be. It would have been easier to just have a definite yes or no in regards to a vampire infestation.

Letting out a shaky breath, I took my first step forward. _Two minutes and counting boys, don't be late,_ I mentally pleaded of Sam and Dean. I took another tentative step and then another, hating that there was no other sound in the house except my footsteps and harsh breathing. Holy crap, this was so much worse than any horror movie I had ever seen. The tension was driving me mad.

I sucked in a deep breath and let it out again. _They aren't going to kill you, just get it over with, Riley, _I told myself as I swallowed hard_._ Alrighty then—Band-Aid method, tried and true. I pushed forward, walking steadily down the hall and turning to head up the stairs. A flicker of movement caught my eye just as I lifted my foot onto the first step, and I turned my head to the right.

There was a man standing in the living room, smiling at me like a psychopath. Yeah, no way he was anything other than a vampire. We stared at each other for a long moment, and then I bolted up the stairs, completely unashamed of running the heck away. He laughed, the taunting sound carrying up the stairs after me, and I would have shuddered if I wasn't busy taking the stairs two at a time.

I reached the second floor landing and looked around wildly, panting and scared. I could hide in one of the rooms, but he would just find me. All I had to do was stall, though, before Sam and Dean came to take care of things. They would keep me safe. Their track record was two for two on saving my butt. Yeah, stalling, that was the way to go.

In the end, I chose the closet. It was full of sports gear, and it totally had a sweaty guy smell. As I shimmied in past soccer cleats and football helmets, I hoped the manufactured locker room smell would cover my own.

Slow footsteps echoed up the stairs, and I was drawn back to the memory of when I first started transitioning into a vampire. I had been able to hear the footsteps coming up the stairs then, too. But that hadn't been all. I had been able to hear a heartbeat, two actually.

I went cold, finally putting it all together. I had heard Sam's and Dean's hearts and footsteps as they raced up the stairs that night. My face crumpled, and I pressed my knuckles against my temples. If I—freshly in transition—had been able to hear it, then the vampire coming up the stairs would easily be able to hear my heartbeat even if my scent was covered. Which meant hiding was somewhat of a moot point. Gosh, there was just no winning against these stupid bloodsuckers.

The fear in my chest coalesced into something much darker and much colder, and I looked down at the syringe in my hand. I was done being terrified. I was done being the helpless victim. I pressed my lips into a thin, flat line and tightened my grip on the syringe. Tucking it against my wrist, I took a deep breath and stepped out to face the vampire head on.

He was young, maybe in his mid-twenties, but I didn't care. A vampire was a vampire. Junior Chompy stopped at the top of the stairs, a stupid toothy smile plastered on his face. I still didn't understand why they kept smiling like that. Yes, it was kind of creepy, but still. Maybe they had no idea how ridiculous it made them look.

Junior Chompy slowly put his wrist to his mouth and bit it. Then he held it out for me to see. Blood ran from the wound, dripping onto the floor in slow droplets, and I was once again super grateful that my mom had convinced my dad to go with wood flooring upstairs instead of carpet all those years ago. There was no way I could explain blood stained carpet to my parents, but wood I could just clean.

Vampires, so much cleaning. Yeesh. They were a nightmare in more ways than one.

Junior tilted his head to the side as if trying to figure out why I wasn't panicking or screaming hysterically. Although both were valid reactions, I wasn't even vaguely interested in either. Seeing I wasn't going to respond, Junior's set of needle-like teeth retracted. "Your turn," he said, dipping his head toward the blood as an indication and grinning like his play on words was actually good. Actually, as wordplay goes, it wasn't half bad, but the context was a complete buzz kill.

I sneered, my time with Sam and Dean having given me some measure of sass. "Been there, done that," I said casually. Then I shrugged. "It didn't take." He lost his grin and took a step towards me, but I held my ground as cold anger raged against the blind terror within me and allowed me to stay rational.

Junior Chompy blurred across the remaining two feet. Already anticipating it, I threw the best right hook I could manage to where I thought his face would be. It didn't slow him down much—hurt my hand like a mother trucker, though. No, he just took it across the jaw, but it _did_ make him cocky as he went for my neck. That was good, though. Because getting bitten by Mrs. Chompy taught me something about vampires. Once feeding, they become utterly single minded.

Pain flared in my neck once more, in almost the same place as last time, and I let out a cry. It hurt, worse this time, and I froze up, lost in the pain and shock.

Downstairs, the door burst open with a loud bang. "Riley," Dean bellowed.

Two minutes as promised. Thank God.

His voice broke me free of the pained daze, and the anger reared up within me. Junior tried to pull back, probably sensing that something wasn't quite right, but I flung my arms around him, not giving him any space. With my left hand, I angled the syringe away from my wrist and stabbed it into Junior's back, depressing the plunger with my thumb.

Junior grunted, shoving free of me and staggering backwards before I could empty the entire shot into him, but I hoped I had injected him with enough. His mouth opened and closed like a fish, revealing teeth bright with blood. My blood.

I wavered slightly myself, dizzy from adrenaline mixed with blood loss maybe. But that didn't stop me from advancing on Junior. I stalked forward, hoping my face accurately portrayed the cold fury that was emanating from my chest. "You done messed up, Junior," I said icily. "Have a nice trip." His face contorted with confusion. Then his eyes widened when he realized where he was standing. I let out a harsh cry and kicked out at him.

It wasn't a great kick, wasn't even a particularly good kick, but it was enough. My foot hit Junior Chompy in the hip and knocked him backwards. His arms pin-wheeled in the air desperately, but it didn't help him as he went tumbling backwards out of my sight down the stairs.

I wobbled forward, pressing a hand to my bloody neck as I went to survey my handiwork. Junior was tumbling in a wild tangle of arms and legs down the last few steps, and he slid to a stop right as Dean appeared at the bottom of the stairs. "I got 'em," I called, my voice still eerily cold.

"No kidding," Dean muttered back up to me, voice gruff with worry.

I flapped a dismissive hand at him and sat down, parking my butt on the landing and dropping my feet down onto the second step. I wasn't going to faint or anything, but frankly, I was surprised I hadn't fallen over after kicking Junior. I had a more concerning matter right now, though. Pulling my hand away from my neck, I grimaced at the slick blood covering my fingers. "Friggin' vampires," I muttered, completely disgusted with the entire species.

Sam ghosted up behind Dean, and Dean turned, already anticipating to Sam's presence. I didn't know how they did that, be so attuned to each other. Maybe just years of practice. I chewed on the inside of my cheek thoughtfully. I sincerely hoped Sam and Dean hadn't been traveling around for years killing things. That was…that was no kind of life. I couldn't do it—that's for sure.

They stood there talking in hushed voices for a minute, and I felt slightly left out. "I can still hear you, you know," I called down at them, even though I couldn't. Dean gave me a wry glance, slapping Sam on the shoulder before starting up the stairs towards me. Sam, in turn, grabbed Junior under the arms and started dragging him away. I vaguely wondered where he planned on taking Junior, but at the same time I didn't really care. Junior was just one more vampire down, which meant there was only one more to go.

Dean loomed up in front of me. "You okay?" He asked, frowning. His fingers came around to touch my neck, infinitely gentle, and I leaned my head to the side, giving him a better view. Then I nodded, not wanting to admit that if I stood up, I was probably going to pitch face first down the stairs. My legs felt all wobbly—adrenaline having already started to fade—which is why I had chosen to sit down in the first place.

"Why is it that they always feel the need to bite me?" I complained. "I mean, they're supposed to turn me, not drink my blood." I grimaced, hearing how weird that sounded when I actually said it out loud.

"They're vampires. Logic isn't a big selling point with them. Little bit of blood on the side is probably a perk." Dean ended his examination and moved down a step to give me room.

"So, the tranquilizer worked great. What was in it?" I asked, stalling for time.

Dean shrugged, still studying me. "Dead man's blood," he said simply. "Give me your hand."

Shoot, he was onto me. He extended his hand towards me, but I pulled mine back. After punching Junior in the jaw, my right hand was starting to get slightly puffy and red, and I wasn't in a particularly touchy-feely mood right now. Dean shook his hand impatiently. "Don't make me carry you."

I scowled at him and acquiesced, wincing when he used my hand and forearm to steady me as I stood. After I was upright and stable, he examined my fingers with practiced movements. "I don't think anything is broken, Fightclub, but it looks like you got a good hit in." He glanced up from my hand with a small snort when he said it, but I just shrugged—not understanding yet another of his references—and took a shaky step downwards. He steadied me, his other hand going to my elbow, and with his support, I made it all the way down the stairs without tripping and dying like an idiot. Yay for me.

At the bottom, I pulled away, feeling sturdy enough to make it on my own. "You should probably help Sam. I didn't give the vampire the full dose of…dead man's blood." The words left a funny taste in my mouth, and I suddenly wondered where exactly Sam and Dean had gotten the blood.

"Oh, I think throwing him down the stairs probably took care of that," Dean said. His mouth quirked into a smile, but at the same time it didn't last more than a second before his face became unreadable.

I squinted at him, trying to sort out what he meant by that, before throwing my hands in the air and shaking my head. Moving my hand was a spectacularly bad idea, because it made the throbbing worse, but it still didn't stop me from walking away. "Whatever," I called over my shoulder. "I'll be in my parent's room."

My pride kept me from telling him how light-headed I was, so instead, I traced my fingertips along the walls to keep me balanced. If Dean noticed, he didn't say anything, and without looking back, I walked with slow, careful steps to my parent's room.

It wasn't that far, but the thought of what I might find made the distance stretch into miles. Finally reaching it, I opened the door with slight trepidation, really not in the mood to find another vampire chilling in their room. Fortunately, it was empty, and I let out a heavy breath, turning my thoughts to the more serious matter of finding my birth certificate and proving Sam wrong.

The infamous strong box was nothing more than an airtight, flame resistant hunk of steel. I scooted it out from the back of Mom's closet, taking great lengths to not peek at anything else while I did. Sometimes my parents bought birthday presents early and then stored them in the back of the closet, too. Mom and Dad thought they were all sneaky about it, but everyone knew exactly where the presents would be. Then again, maybe they expected us kids to respect their privacy enough to not go snooping in the closet.

Wow. That sealed it. I was a terrible child.

Dragging the box to the middle of the room, I plopped down on the carpet. Then with one and a half functioning hands, I pried the latch up and flipped the lid open. Like I had told Dean, there were tons of documents inside. I took out the first. "Awww," I said, studying the fancy calligraphy on my parent's wedding certificate. Then I remembered that they might not actually be my parents, and that just put a damper on the whole thing.

Frowning, I pulled out some other random papers. There was a will, the deed for the house, a couple papers with social security numbers on them, an old black and white photo of Mom's parents, and…there. Birth certificates, issued by the Providence Medford Medical Center. I took a shaky breath, realizing how bad my hands were trembling. _Just do it Riley_, I told myself. So I did.

Pulling free the clump of birth certificates, I dropped the pile onto the carpet and splayed my fingers on top of them. Then I pushed my hand sideways, revealing one certificate after another.

Jacob Alan Stewart. Jake's.

Neal Robert Stewart. Neal's.

Aaron Travis Stewart. Aaron's.

Joyce Catherine Macintyre. Mom's.

Roy Alan Stewart. Dad's.

The last paper was folded in half, and a hiccupped sob burst from my throat. _One of these things is not like the other_, the horrid voice in my head wheedled.

I unfolded the paper with clumsy fingers, covering my mouth when I saw the heading. _State of Illinois_, it proclaimed. Under that—_Department of Health, Office of Vital Records_. The third line of the heading was the worst. In three dark, bolded words, the piece of paper managed to make my heart shrivel up into a tiny, dead rock. _Certificate of Adoption_.

My eyes watered as I skimmed down the carefully completed boxes.

Full name of child after adoption, as decreed by the court: Riley Ann Stewart.

Name of adoptive father: Roy Stewart.

Name of adoptive mother: Joyce Stewart.

Name of child at birth: Ella Ann Abram.

I squeezed my eyes shut, unwilling to let the tears run down my cheeks. It was a government document, all very proper and bureaucratic, and it meant that my family had been lying to me since the day I was…adopted, I guess. Born didn't fit, not anymore. God, why hadn't they told me? Why, why, why?

The pain started then. Pain in my neck, pain in my hand, and a horrible, empty pain in my chest. I folded the government form in half again and collected the stack of birth certificates, cold efficiency taking over my movements. Instead of just throwing everything back in the box as quickly as possible like I wanted to, I replaced it all exactly the way it had been. Then I closed the lid, did the latch, and moved the box back into closet.

After it was done, I stood, fighting the pain welling up inside. I hesitated in the doorway of my parent's bedroom and scrubbed my eyes clear, forcing my face into a more neutral expression. Then I went to find Sam and Dean. I didn't want to tell them, didn't want to admit it was true, but they needed to know. I owed them that much at least.

They had taken Junior Chompy to the garage, and I followed the noises. "What do you want with her?" Dean barked. There was a long moment of silence followed by the sound of someone getting hit. Oh wonderful, we were doing a stereotypical Hollywood interrogation all up in here. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to prepare myself for whatever I might see. Letting the breath out, I pushed the door to the garage open.

Junior was tied—with a liberal amount of duct tape and rope—to one of the giant, wooden chairs my father was obsessed with refurbishing. Junior's face was a mess, and Dean was wiping blood off his hand with a cloth. Sam stepped up, wiggling an ugly, serrated knife in his hand for Junior to see. "We can end this quickly for you or…"

Dean took the knife from Sam and moved a step closer to Junior. "Stop," I said, not wanting to see someone tortured in my own garage. I didn't care if he was a vampire; it was just wrong.

Sam and Dean spun to face me, startled. "Riley, you should go," Dean said harshly. _You shouldn't see this_, was the unspoken half of his sentence.

I shook my head and walked up to Junior. "My biological parents, they're the ones that want me. That's who you're working for." I wasn't really asking, because I kind of already knew the answer. It was the only thing that made sense.

Junior's resulting laugh turned into a cough, and he gagged, spitting blood. Some of it got on my jeans, but at this point, it couldn't make them look any worse. I looked down at the new splatter and then back up at him, disgust creeping onto my face. "It's my father, right?"

I was making an educated guess. At the bottom of the form, there had been a place for the biological mother and father to sign. The box for the father's signature had been blank, and the box for the mother's signature was filled with an extremely shaky and childlike signature, like she was sick or emotional or something. Either way, she had legally consented to give me up, but the father either hadn't or wasn't around to sign. Which meant that out of the two of them, it was most likely that him trying to hunt me down and turn me. God forbid it be both.

Junior Chompy's smile faded, letting me know that I was right, and I rubbed a hand over my eyes. For a second, I felt a little like Sherlock Holmes, but the good feeling faded when I remembered I was Sherlock-ing my own life. And what a messed up life it was turning out to be.

"Okay," I said dully, unable to come up with any other adequate response. Then I turned away, feeling drained and lost. I wanted to cry or curl up in bed or possibly binge eat an entire carton of chocolate ice-cream. Or maybe do all three at the same time. Yeah, that could work.

Sam and Dean looked a little lost, too, when I walked past them out of the garage. They'd get over it, though. They must see this type of craziness all the time.

I went upstairs, stopping at the top step. There was blood on the landing, from Junior's wrist, and I knew there was bound to be blood galore in my room. I turned around, mutely, and went back downstairs to get a bucket and a rag. The repetition of going up and down the steps was nice. It was centering, holding me together.

The repetition from scrubbing dried blood off the floor and walls was nice, too. Thankfully, Sam and Dean had removed the body from my room, so it was really just the blood left to take care of. And my vomit. And the shattered lamp. It was okay, though. I didn't have to think as I cleaned.

When I finished, I dumped the pinkish water down the toilet and hid the stained rag at the bottom of the garbage can. Then I went to my room so I could grab clean clothes to change into after I took my shower.

Just like before, the endless stream of hot water let the world drop out of focus. And just like before, I stayed in way too long, only getting out when my eyes got heavy and I couldn't stop yawning. Depressingly enough, I think it was the high point of my day when I pulled on an entirely clean set of clothes. It's the little things in life, really.

Plodding back to my room, I surveyed the shattered door. Yeah, I didn't know how I was going to explain this to anyone. Maybe I could bribe Jake to replace it for me before anyone got home. I could tell him I'd thrown a drunken rager, and that things had gotten out of hand. It might have been a plausible excuse if the only people really capable to do structural damage when drunk—chiefly the football team—hadn't been out of town for most of the week. Also, the fact that most of my friends were nerds, and that we didn't party, would also hurt the story's credibility.

I yawned again, shuffling past my mangled door in bitter acceptance that I was screwed. I was so far screwed that I didn't even care anymore. Turning out to be adopted, check. Crazy dad hunting me down, check. Grounded for life for breaking down my door, check. Probably ending up psychologically scarred from watching vampires get beheaded, double check.

Golly, my life had taken such an awesome turn in the last week. And by awesome, I meant horrible and utterly surreal. I was so lucky. And by lucky, I meant catastrophically unfortunate. Yeah, it was great to be me.

Unwilling to face it all for even one more second, I crawled under the covers and melted against the comforting familiarity of my own bed. Then—due to some minor miracle—sleep crashed over me the instant my head hit the pillow. I slept, and I slept hard.

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A/N: Review? Please? I love reviews! They make me feel all fuzzy inside.


	8. Who's Your Daddy?

Disclaimer: Still not my Winchesters. Also, the line "Family don't end with blood, boy!" is taken directly from the show (woot, woot Bobby Singer!), and I only used part of it. Not my line.

A/N: Whew, second to last chapter! Crazy. Thank you to those of you who reviewed. Reviews are the best! :) Anywho, stay tuned. One more chapter to come. Allons-y!

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It was almost surprising how much better waking up was when no one tried to turn me into a monster or shake me out of a coma.

Okay, total lie—waking up was still horrible.

My alarm clock was the offending culprit this time. It went off at eight thirty in the morning for no good reason. I lifted my head blearily off the pillow and spit a lock of hair out of my mouth, completely spiteful for having been drawn out of my precious sleep by some overly cheerful eighties song. "Shaddup, I hate you," I slurred, blindly slapping the top of my clock repeatedly. It didn't shut off, but then again I already knew it probably wouldn't. Never stopped me from trying, though.

After two years of me turning the clock off and going back to sleep—and therefore making him late to class—Jake had come into my room one day and disabled the snooze button. Normally, Jake would have been all for using me as an excuse for tardiness, but his precious Strength and Conditioning class had been his first hour, so it was "Riley, hurry up, we're going to be late," all through my high school career. Girl can't catch a break.

These days I had to reach all the way around and flip the switch at the back of the clock just to shut the stupid thing up, and I did so now with great prejudice against all timepieces everywhere.

"I hate you," I repeated, echoing my earlier sentiment with more vehement feelings. But I climbed out of bed regardless, more interested in appeasing the sharp hunger pangs in my stomach than sleeping in.

Remembering that Sam and Dean were somewhere downstairs, I ran a brush through my hair and pulled it into a messy ponytail. Doing a thirty second self-examination in the mirror, I was excited to see that I no longer looked like a gaunt albino. And, while I still wasn't one hundred percent, I _did_ look marginally less likely to keel over at any second, which was a definite win in my book. "I'll take it," I announced cheerfully, dropping my hairbrush back into the drawer and shoving it shut with my knee.

On the way downstairs, I spot-checked the floor, keeping a sharp eye out for any traces of blood that I might have missed last night. I didn't find any, which was nice. It meant I could focus on normal morning things. Like making breakfast.

Tiptoeing down the hall, I peeked into the living room as I passed by. Dean was stretched out on the couch, feet crossed at the ankle and jacket spread out over his chest like a mini blanket. Sam was curled on his side on the other, slightly longer couch. His arms were wrapped across his stomach, and my eyes caught on the heap of his jacket on the floor. I had to seriously and efficiently tamp down on the urge to go steal it.

_He beheaded a vampire for you_, I scolded myself, _you can't steal his coat just because it smells good and makes you feel safe._ Shaking my head wistfully, I continued into the kitchen and pulled out my mom's box of recipes.

Pancakes weren't that complicated, but I almost never cooked by myself, so I still had to look up how much of each thing to mix in. The recipe was for designed for four people, which meant cutting it in half would probably make the right amount. Pursing my lips thoughtfully, I traced a finger down the ingredients list and ran the mental calculations. Then I caught a glance of Sam's gigantic legs protruding off the end of the couch, and I nixed the idea, deciding to go big or go home.

My mom had always said that cooking things calmed her down, and for once, I had to agree with her. As I shuffled back and forth between cupboards and drawers, my mind was completely focused on following the directions and not how insane my life had gotten. In fact, as I measured and stirred and taste-tested, I didn't think about vampires even once.

Because it was a big batch, I pulled out the pancake griddle and plugged it in. Then, as I waited for it to heat up, I dug around in the back of the fridge and broke out the bacon. Technically, my mom liked to save it for special occasions because bacon was so stinking expensive, but I figured since I was probably already grounded for a month over the whole door thing, I might as well just go for it.

Besides, part of me was irrationally excited to have a whole package to myself. Normally Jake and my dad would totally scarf the bacon before anyone else got a chance at it. But now? Now I could have as much as I wanted. Well, kind of. Sam and Dean would probably want some too. Well, Dean would. Sam seemed like he would maybe only eat a piece or two at most. More for me, though. Bacon made everything better.

I bent down and pulled a frying pan from the drawer at the bottom of the stove. Then I twisted the dial to turn on the front burner and plopped the pan onto the stovetop. Finding a knife, I slit open the package of bacon and dumped the whole thing into the pan. Then, using the tip of the knife, I separated the pieces out and pushed them around to form a nice row. As they started to sizzle and pop, I put the knife away, more than a little pleased that my hand was no longer twitching with the need for pointy objects. Progress—that was definitely progress.

Rubbing my hands together in childish pleasure, I grabbed the pancake batter and ladled out spoonfuls of it across the griddle. Then, congratulating myself on my Suzy Homemaker skills, I got out three plates and forks. That left only one thing left to do. Syrup.

I had never been able to stomach the thick store-bought kind, so Mom had come up with her own recipe. It mostly involved maple flavored extract and an unholy amount of sugar. Still, I whipped it up with ease, taking a break to flip the pancakes and scoot the bacon around in the pan. Dang, I was good.

Two platefuls of pancakes later, the bacon was ready. I flipped the latest batch of pancakes and turned off the stovetop. Then, carefully gripping the handle of the pan, I carried it over to the sink and drained the bacon grease into empty tin can. Heavenly bacon scent wafted up, and my mouth watered. Why had I not done this before? Did it really take three attempted kidnappings to make me bold enough to steal bacon from my family?

After the bacon grease drained, I used a fork to push the crispy strips onto a plate with a paper towel folded over it. "There," I said, extremely pleased with myself.

In the living room, Dean sniffed loudly and his head turned towards the kitchen. I grinned as his eyes slid open and he lifted his head. Yep, the smell of bacon never failed to wake Jake, Neal, and Aaron up either. Dean dropped his legs over the side of the couch and sat up, rubbing his face. He stood and stretched, pulling his jacket on before padding into the kitchen. I motioned to the barstool on the other side of the island, and he plunked down on it, resting his elbows on the counter. Wordlessly, I set the plate of bacon towards him.

"You made breakfast," he said, voice still rough with sleep. I heard the_ thank you _tacked onto the end of his sentence, and I turned halfway towards the griddle to poke at the cooking pancakes with the spatula. They didn't need to be flipped over, but I was too embarrassed by his thanks to face him head on.

"So…yesterday was…awesome." I could hear the offer to talk in his voice, but I just shrugged noncommittally. "You're gotta talk about it with someone," Dean said, shoving an entire piece of bacon into his mouth. "Sam says bottling emotions up isn't healthy." I raised my eyebrows at him, and he gave a wry shrug. "Eh, Sammy's always saying girly stuff like that. I think it's the hair." I toasted his sentiment with a piece of bacon, and he lifted his piece in response. Two of a kind, we were.

Then I shrugged again, taking a delicate bite of my own bacon just to show Dean it could be done. "I rather thought I'd just eat myself into a bacon coma until the problem resolved itself." For all sights and appearances, I was a cool customer, untouched by the madness around me.

Of course, Dean saw right through my pathetic act. "They're still your family," he said softly.

"They're not," I snapped angrily, Dean having swiftly bypassed my last shred of self-control. "They're liars! They've been lying to me my entire life."

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, frowning. "So they screwed up, tough. Family makes mistakes. Hell, family is _supposed_ to make mistakes. But you get over it, and you move on, 'cause that's what family _does_." He stared at me with those intense green eyes, and I suddenly got the feeling that he was speaking from a place of experience. And that was all good and fine, except for one tiny detail.

"But they're not my family." It was painful to admit to myself, and even more painful to say out loud. But I supposed the worse truth was that I _did_ have family out there, and if he just so happened to be a maniac bent on recruiting vampires to kidnap me, well then…that just seemed like typical Riley luck.

"Family don't end with blood, kiddo," Dean said sagely, snagging another piece of bacon from the plate.

Unable to come up with a valid response, I fell back on what I knew. "That's not even a grammatically correct statement," I countered lamely.

Dean snorted. "Doesn't make it wrong, though." Then he turned and slid off the stool. "I'm going to hit the head." He narrowed his eyes at me. "There better be some bacon when I get back."

Despite the seriousness of the topic, I couldn't help but smile a little, which I suppose was Dean's intention. Satisfied, he walked out of the kitchen in search of the bathroom, and I sighed, turning back to the griddle to pull the last of the pancakes off.

"He's right, you know," Sam said behind me. I yelped and spun, brandishing the spatula in my hand as a weapon. Unfortunately, it was a _spatula_—completely lacking in any kind of menacing intimidation or danger factor. Dropping it onto counter, I pressed a hand to my chest, as if that would help calm my racing heart down. Sam gave me an apologetic look, but I waved it away with quick forgiveness.

"Bacon?" I asked, holding the plate out towards him in hopes that he would take it and stop talking about the one subject that made me feel like my heart was going to shrivel and die.

True to his health-conscious form, he only took one small piece and sat down on the stool next to Dean's. I set the plate of fresh pancakes in front of him and went to the fridge to find a jar of home-made applesauce, figuring he'd probably like it more than the sugary syrup. As I carried it back to the island, I twisted the lid of the jar futilely, trying to break the seal. It didn't budge. I scowled at it helplessly for a second before remembering that I literally had a big, friendly giant sitting two feet away from me.

I glanced at him sideways before holding out the jar in embarrassment. He took it, giving the lid a sharp twist and popping the seal with almost no effort before handing it back. Typical. "I loosened it for you," I stated matter-of-factly.

"Mh hmm," he hummed good-naturedly.

"Whatever," I muttered, spooning out a liberal amount of applesauce onto my pancakes. Then I set the jar casually in the middle of the island. Sure enough, Sam bypassed the syrup and went for it.

Dean wandered back into the kitchen, settling in front of his plate again. "Ah, bacon," he announced in an affectionate tone. I rolled my eyes as he grabbed three more pieces off the plate before starting in on his pancakes.

I picked at my own pancakes, eating just enough of it to make my stomach stop hurting. But really, my mind was someplace else. Setting my fork down, I propped my elbow on the island and rested my chin on my hand. "Do you think he'll come himself? Now that most of his vampire minions have failed?" I didn't have to specify on who I was talking about, which was nice, because I didn't know what to call…well, him.

Both Sam and Dean went still, forks halfway to their mouths. Dean recovered first. "Doesn't matter. If he does, we'll be ready."

Sam put his fork down, rubbing a hand over his mouth thoughtfully. "I've been thinking. About why he's coming after you now." I gave him a blank look, and he clarified. "I mean, why he's doing it now, instead of when you were little." Sam went back to the living room and retrieved his laptop. Opening the lid, he booted it up and waited. Then he spun it around for me to see.

He was on the local newspaper's website, looking at an article and picture from months ago. But the picture staring back at me was one I had seen before. It was a family photo, taken in front of the new community garden. My parents had been the ones to set it up, so the picture for the article was of them…and me. That day, I had been working with them, planting and weeding away. So when the photographer had shown up, they'd told me to jump in. _Roy, Joyce, and Riley Stewart work to turn abandoned dirt lot into New Starts Community Garden_, the caption proclaimed.

I looked up from the article at Sam, and he shrugged. "If your biological father had a copy of the adoption papers, and he somehow saw the article…then he could have put things together. The paper published this a few months ago, so it makes sense that it took him this long to track you down."

I shut the lid of the laptop, not wanting to look at the picture anymore. Then I turned away, scraping the rest of my pancake into the biodegradable bucket under the sink. "Riley," Dean said slowly. The sympathy in his voice just made it worse, though.

"I'm fine," I said abruptly. "I just want this…taken care of." Like it was just another thing to cross off the list instead of one more vampire to kill. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. How had this even happened? Things like this didn't happen to normal people. Things like this shouldn't even happen at all.

"I need to get some air," I announced, marching over to the sliding glass door to let them know it wasn't up for discussion. I had locked and pulled the curtains in front of it when I had first gotten home all those days ago. Now, I yanked the curtains back, anger lending sharpness to my movements. The door slid open easily, and I stomped down the steps and into the grass.

I stood there for a long moment, shaking with all the emotions that were playing havoc on my sanity. Fear—at the terrible knowledge that I could wake up one day having been turned into a vampire while I slept. Betrayal—since my family had apparently been lying to me for my whole life. Rage—as I felt so helpless and vulnerable in this new world of monsters. Pain—because something inside me felt broken and I didn't know why. They all welled up, threatening to overwhelm me.

And…I wanted them gone.

Tipping my head back, I let out a wild, furious yell—venting all my whirling emotions into the clouds. Then I stopped, feeling empty and lost instead of liberated. There was a chuff to my left, and I turned my head. It was our neighbor's dog, Shepard. He was an impossibly sweet, old sheep dog. We always gave him dog treats when he showed up, and in turn, he always made it part of his morning routine to drop by and say hello.

"Hey Shep," I said with a desolate sigh, sinking down to sit in the grass cross-legged. He walked over, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, resting my chin on his back. Shep just sat there, radiating quiet dignity as I petted him. "At least you haven't changed," I said morosely. But I'd spoken to soon, because Shep pulled free of me, growling uncharacteristically before he trotted off. "Typical," I muttered, standing back up and brushing myself off.

I should have known that Shep wasn't growling at me.

Should've, but didn't. Story of my life.

By the time my brain processed the fact that the drastic change in Shep's behavior probably didn't have anything to do with me, it was too late. I was able to take two running steps towards the house before a man and a woman appeared between me and safety.

I skidded to a stop, recognizing one and automatically hating the other.

"Hello, love. You're a hard girl to track down," he said with a small smile. He was tall and wiry, something I obviously hadn't inherited. But his face? It was like looking in a mirror. The hazel eyes with rare gold flecks that I was so used to seeing were staring back at me. The high cheekbones. The small mouth. They were mine, but they weren't _only_ mine. They were his, too, and it hurt.

I looked past him to the woman that was hanging onto his arm. She was taking the term "clingy" to a whole new level. "Sara," I said, half pleading, half horrified. She stared at me spitefully, and I hated him for turning her. I hated him for all of this.

"Go inside the house," he told Sara.

"But James," she simpered, pushing her bottom lip out in a pout. He pulled his arm free of her impatiently, and I stared at him, now having a name to go with all my hatred. James.

"Kill anyone you find inside," he said, his eyes never leaving mine.

Sara laughed, then. It was a cruel and petty, and she went of her own free will—completely ready to kill my family had they been inside.

"I searched for you," James said. "I've searched for you all this time. And here you are."

"Here I am," I agreed, thinking that Sara was going to find a bit more than she bargained for in the house.

"You're turning out to be quite the little project, you know. When Erik didn't come back, I just thought he might have strayed from our plan. Then Rachel fell out of contact as well. Then Keith." Chompy, Mrs. Chompy, and Junior Chompy—yeah, I liked my names for them better.

James cocked his head the side slightly, putting a finger to his lips. "Tell me, are they still alive?"

"No," I said simply. Then, after a pause, I posed a question of my own. "Is my biological mother?"

A look of regret flashed across his face. "No," he said quietly. Then the regret was gone, and James smiled again. "No matter, you're all the family I need. Best thing I ever did before all this."

It was my turn to tilt my head to the side. "Before drinking blood and killing people? Before turning them into monsters? Before all that?" My tone was laced with heavy sarcasm, and I honestly didn't know where it was coming from. Maybe I had a hidden reservoir of sass that only manifested at times of great physical and mental stress.

His face went flat. "You judge me now, but once you're like me, you'll understand." The regret returned to his face, and with it came the clear pain of remembrance. "Your mother didn't understand, either. Not at first. She was sick, but they couldn't treat her. Not without harming you, growing inside her. I searched for help. I found psychics and healers and religion. Nothing worked. Until this." James gestured at himself, and his extra set of teeth slid into sight. Then he shook his head, teeth retracting.

"It would have worked. It would have saved her," he said bitterly. A single tear ran down his cheek, but I stared at him impassively, unmoved by his display of emotion. "She cried when she saw what I had become. And the next day, you were gone. She had given you away." His face twisted into something ugly, then. "She wanted to hide you from me. But I've finally found you. You're mine, baby girl. We can be together now."

Inside the house, Sara let out a terrible scream. It was long and drawn out before cutting off abruptly. James' head whipped towards the house and then back to me. "What have you done?" He demanded, aghast.

I shrugged. "You might have found me, but you weren't the only one."

Dean appeared in the doorway, machete in hand. I didn't look at him, didn't let my face show any emotion lest I give his position away.

Instead, I fixed James with a cold look. "I'm not," I said.

James' forehead wrinkled, and he hesitated. "Not what?" He asked warily.

"Not yours," I said darkly. His eyes widened, then, either from what I had said or from hearing Dean coming up behind him. Either way, it was too late. Dean didn't wait for him to turn around before swinging the machete.

The long blade glinted in the sunlight as it slashed sideways. I closed my eyes again, just like I had done with Mrs. Chompy. And, just like with Mrs. Chompy, I still heard the blow. I shuddered and then flinched when I heard the body hit the ground.

My face crumpled and tears welled up, but I still didn't open my eyes. I didn't want to see any of it. Not the blood, not the body, not the teeth, not the bloody weapon, not any of it.

Tears trickled down my cheeks, and for the first time since this all began, I started to cry.

Footsteps closed in on me. "Hey, hey," Dean said. "You're safe now. It's over." I jumped when he touched my shoulder, but I still didn't open my eyes. "Come on," he said softly, taking my elbow and guiding me back towards the house. We went on a wide detour around the body, I could tell, and he told me when I needed to walk up the steps and step over the doorjamb. "Keep 'em closed," he said right as we walked through the door. We took a detour through the living room as well, which meant they must have killed Sara in the hallway between the front door and the kitchen.

I shuddered at the thought, wondering why she had changed so much. The Sara I knew had been kind and selfless. The vampire version had been cruel and clingy. Maybe James had done something to her.

"Almost there, kiddo" Dean said, coming to a stop. "You're at the stairs."

I put one foot out, trying not to awkwardly Hulk Stomp the area in front of me. My toe bumped the edge of the stair, and I started climbing. Dean let go of my arm, and after a few steps, I opened my eyes, judging myself far enough away from the carnage that I wouldn't see anything. I was, and I didn't.

Climbing the rest of the steps slowly, I went to my room and sat on the edge of my bed. After a few seconds, I flopped backwards and stared up at the ceiling. The tears didn't stop, and I didn't know how to make them. So I just lay there, thinking and crying like a complete weirdo.

I could hear the soft thumps downstairs and the muffled buzz of Sam and Dean talking. They were cleaning things up—something for which I was eternally grateful. I didn't think I could handle cleaning up any more bloodstains.

Hopefully, I wouldn't have to, because it was over. James was dead. Sara was dead. All the Chompies were dead. So that meant what exactly? That I could just go back to my normal life?

I didn't even know how to start.

I felt old. Not physically, but in a weird mental maturity way. Like my view and ideals of the perfect, apple pie life were tarnished. Like I wasn't the naïve girl who had started the week out so cheerfully. Like I had seen death up close and personal. Like monsters were real and could hurt me. Like...

My phone chimed loudly, startling me out of my dark rumination. I fished it from my pocket and looked at the new text message. It was from my parents. _Missed you lots, be home tomorrow night!_ It said. I stared at it for a long moment then let the phone fall onto the bed next to my head, unable to muster the enthusiasm to type up a response.

_Yeah, missed you guys, too_, I thought weakly. But right then, I didn't know if I really meant it or not. I definitely needed to figure this whole family thing out before they got home.

I replayed my earlier conversation with Dean over again in my head, and it filled me with both comfort and confusion.

_Family don't end with blood_.

_You get over it, and you move on, 'cause that's what family _does.

Get over it and move on. I could do that. I could do it, but I knew it would take time. Time…yeah, I had about a day and a half to decide just how "over it" I was going to get. Lucky me.

_Better get a move on, Ri,_ I told myself. But at the same time, all I could think about was how much I wanted this all to be just a bad dream. That and how much I wanted bacon. Bacon makes everything better.

I sat up, wiping the wetness off my cheeks and readjusting my ponytail. _Bacon_, I thought, _I will just keep eating bacon until my family gets home, and then maybe everything will be alright._

Then I hesitated, one solid thought emblazoning itself onto my mind. My family. No matter how many times I said they weren't my family out loud, through out this whole ordeal, I still _thought_ of them as my family.

My family. The one I chose to call mine. Because family don't end with blood.


	9. You Get Over It, And You Move On

Disclaimer: The Winchesters are not mine.

A/N: Wow. Nine chapters. Never saw it coming this far. Pretty sure I wrote more for this story than I did in my entire quarter of English class. Awkward. Anywho, hope you guys enjoyed reading Riley's adventure. Drop me a review and let me know if you're interested in more. :)

* * *

I walked down the stairs in slow, procrastinating steps, not sure what I was going to find at the bottom. Steeling myself, I peeked around the corner to look down the hallway. It was spotless. Letting out a sigh of relief, I walked into the kitchen. It was also spotless, save for our abandoned breakfast.

Snagging a piece of bacon and taking a bite, I turned to look into the living room. My jaw dropped, and the bacon almost fell out. Luckily, I slammed my mouth shut, catching the bacon mid-fall. Ain't nobody got bacon to waste.

The living room looked like a war zone. It almost looked like someone had been dragged along the mantle above the stove and had knocked everything off it, because the mantle was suspiciously clean and freshly dusted while everything else wasn't.

Plus, anything that had been decorating the mantle was now strewn on the floor—from the badly built birdhouses that hallmarked each of us kids taking a seventh grade Woodworking class to the little cardboard frames you get when you play on a sports teams—with the team picture on the bottom and the individual picture in the upper corner.

Those were perhaps the most numerous items across the floor. Jake had ones from basketball and football. Aaron and Neal had ones from track and baseball. I had several from soccer, which was the only sport I ever excelled at. Either way, they were everywhere on the floor along with a few actual picture frames that had fallen, too. I scowled at the corresponding blank spaces on the wall above the mantle.

Vampires. So frigging messy.

"So, what now?" I asked, surveying the pandemonium in the living room. Along with the immediate clutter, the furniture was slightly off kilter as well. I walked around, leaning down to collect the four wooden picture frames that had fallen. Thankfully all of them were undamaged except one. And, of course, it _would_ be the only baby picture of me that we had. Typical Riley luck.

I poked around the small collection of splintered wood frame and shattered glass, easing the photo out from the remnants. The photo itself seemed fine, and I couldn't help but smile slightly at how cute I had been. It's hard to frown when a cheerful baby is staring up at you—regardless of it being in a picture or not.

A tiny flash of color on the bent corner of the photo caught my eye, and I flipped it over to investigate. There was an inscription, scrawled in faded blue ink, and I lost my smile.

Throughout the years, my parents had repeatedly looked over the photo wistfully and sighed, citing that it was their favorite picture of me when I was little. Each time they did, I would just roll my eyes, but secretly, I liked it too. My smile in that picture seemed to light up the room. As baby pictures go, it was pretty dang good, and I had never cared that it was the only one we had.

My mother had said that by the time I was born, the boys had broken her camera on three separate occasions, so she never really had the chance to take pictures of me as a baby. She noted that by the time she had replaced it, I was already out of the baby stage. I had never questioned her story, but now I knew better.

That was the only baby picture they had of me…because I hadn't been with them when I was a baby.

As I read the inscription on the back of the photo, a bitter feeling coalesced in my chest, but I pushed it down. The Stewarts were my family. I had already made that decision, and dwelling on their deception wouldn't help anything. _You get over it, and you move on_, I reminded myself.

Sam stooped, politely pushing the couch back into place with a single hand before picking up his backpack and bag of clothes. I raised my eyebrows, completely impressed with his sheer strength. He turned to me, looking thoughtful about my random question. That was Sam, though, thoughtful and precise. "Dean and I will find another job. You'll go back to your normal life." He hesitated a beat before continuing. "Speaking of normal, what are you going to tell your parents?"

I fingered the corner of my picture, biting my lip. "The truth, probably." Sam—and Dean, in the kitchen—froze, looking positively alarmed for a moment, and a little giggle bubbled out of my chest. "I'm kidding," I said with a smile.

They relaxed, but still looked a little wary, and I sobered, holding up the picture for them to see and then flipping it over to show them the back. _My Sweet Ella_, was written in beautiful cursive letters—the handwriting too fancy and legible to be from either of my parents.

I was unable to stop my mouth from twitching into a small frown, but I hid it as I stuffed my hands in my pocket and studied the mess. Then I sighed, realizing that I had a long day of cleaning ahead of me. Which reminded me of something. But first, I had to answer Sam's question. "I'll tell my parents that I accidently broke the picture frame with a soccer ball and found this. There's no way this is their handwriting. I'll just tell them that I put two and two together."

Sam's forehead creased, and he looked skeptical. "You knocked the picture off the wall…with a soccer ball?"

I shrugged, glancing around and playing it ultra-casual. "Ehhh, ummm, well…it's something that may or may not have happen before. Kind of. Once-ish. Okay, maybe twice." He snorted and turned away, slinging his jacket over his arm. I tried to hide my covetous glance by looking at Dean instead. He had been suspiciously quiet up to this point.

"Ella, huh?" He said, surveying me thoughtfully before shaking his head. "I just don't see you as an Ella."

I dropped my eyes for a second, nodding slowly. Then I looked at him squarely, having come to terms with this entire week of weirdness. "I'm not. I'm one hundred percent Riley Stewart—incapacitator of vampires, queen of bacon and sass." They both smiled at that, and I matched them with a grin. Then, after a beat, I added, "I'll be okay, guys. Really."

Dean took a step towards me and dropped a hand on my shoulder. "Yeah, I know you will, kiddo." I stared up at him and him down at me. _You get over it, and you move on_, I recited mentally, replaying his words. The skin around Dean's eyes crinkled slightly as if he knew what I was thinking, and he gave a little smile. Two of a kind, we were.

I pulled away, already prepared with my next question. "Hey, so should I be worried about anyone finding random bodies on our property? Do I need to keep people from digging in certain spots or anything?" Sam fixed me with a completely exasperated look, and I held up my hands in placation. "Oh, right. Try to be normal, yeah. I'll work on that." I turned away, dropping the subject in favor of another. "Hey, you guys want some pancakes or bacon for the road? Got plenty left, and I have to hide the evidence."

They opted to take the extra pancakes, just to humor me, I think. And Dean opted to take some of the bacon, humoring no one but himself. I put it all in Ziploc bags and walked them to the door, handing the bags off to Sam as he went out to the car. Dean lingered for a second, and I jumped on the opportunity to do something I had been meaning to this entire time.

"Thanks," I said quietly. "For saving my life. For…" Cleaning up the bodies? Killing the vampires? I didn't know what to say, but I think Dean understood anyway.

"No need to thank us. It's our job. Saving people, hunting things." He looked out the door at Sam, thoughtfully, with a hint of pride.

I shook my head, not letting him off that easily. "Even if nobody else knows what you do—I know. So thanks. Just…thanks."

He gave his trademark little smirk and then handed me a scrap of paper. "This is Sam's number. If you ever run into…anything…call us." He looked back out over the driveway and then back to me sharply. "I mean it, Riley."

I nodded quickly. "I know. I may be reckless and a little crazy, but I'm not stupid. I'll call."

"Good," he said quietly. Then he hefted his bag and turned towards the car. "See you around, kiddo."

"See you," I echoed, watching as he walked out to the car and tossed his bag in the back. I waved, and they both waved back. The engine rumbled to life, and Dean revved it lightly. I grinned, giving him a thumbs up, and they backed out of the driveway.

I watched them drive off for as long as I could before they went out of sight. "Nice knowing you, Sam and Dean—" I dropped off, at an abrupt loss.

Sam and Dean who, exactly? I didn't know.

* * *

Not four hours after Sam and Dean had left and I had gone on a major cleaning binge, Jake got home. I was in my room, zoning out with Netflix and the last of the bacon.

"I'm home," Jake yelled obnoxiously, making my heart beat faster and fuzzy emotion flood through me. Dang, I had missed him, even if he was annoying sometimes.

He tromped up the stair lazily, letting his bag hit the wall with every step in typical Jake fashion. I closed my eyes, willing the tears not to come. There was no need to get emotional. I mean, it's not like I was both tired and partially terrified of being alone. Oh wait, joke's on everyone else…because I was.

So when Jake's bag hit the floor in a heavy thump, followed by his loud exclamation, it almost felt like Christmas morning. He was home; I wasn't alone anymore. The world was right again.

"Oh, man. What did you _do_?" He sounded completely awed. "Mom and Dad are going to _kill_ you." Okay maybe the world was too right. I still had to come up with a valid excuse for that particular problem.

I composed myself carefully, waiting for him to stick his head through my doorway. AFter a second, he did, and I propped my chin on a hand casually. "Would you believe me if I said a tall, attractive man kicked down the door and burst into my room?" I asked curiously.

Jake's eyebrows shot up, and he snorted derisively. "An attractive man, into your room? Not a chance. What really happened?"

I shrugged. "How 'bout I had an adverse emotional reaction to finding out I was adopted, and I kicked down the door as a result."

Jake's face went from "Ha-ha, you are so busted" to "Oh sh**" in a second flat. I tilted my head and studied him, letting absolutely zero emotion into my expression. I had originally thought maybe he was too young to really remember me being adopted, but he had known. The guilt and panic were written all over his face. He'd known, and he still hadn't told me. "Yeah," I said slowly. "That seems to be the more believable one."

"Ri," he said slowly, a rare seriousness taking over both his tone and his facial expression. Jake was almost never serious, not about things other than football and protein shakes. It didn't sit well with me.

"Good night, Jake," I said shortly, turning away and putting my ear buds in. I swiped my finger over the mouse pad and clicked the play button to unpause the movie, but I didn't really pay attention to it. Even though my back was to the door, I could still tell Jake was hovering in the doorway, probably trying to figure out if he should say something.

I didn't know if anything he could say would change how betrayed I felt. The pain was gone; I was done with that. But it still felt weird. Clearly my entire family had conspired not to tell me, and it was very disorientating.

_Get over it and move on_, I repeated. _You are getting over it, and you are moving on_.

* * *

When my parents got home later that night, I had to repeat my new mantra even more frequently than before.

I told my lies, putting the burden of guilt squarely onto them so they wouldn't question my story.

My mother cried, falling all over herself to explain. My father paced back and forth, pushing his glasses further up his nose when they just kept slipping down. I let them stew and flounder for a while before holding up my hand.

"I'm fine," I said firmly. "I might not understand why you never told me, but it's fine. And I'm sorry for freaking out and breaking the door."

"It's okay, sweetie," Mom sniffled, wiping her eyes with a tissue. "When your father found out he was adopted, he ran away to South Dakota for a week. Didn't you, Roy?"

"Yes, yes," he muttered irritably, pulling off his glasses and wiping them down with the corner of his shirt. "I went to see Mount Rushmore. It was the peak of my rebellion. You needn't keep reminding me, Joyce."

Yep, running away to see national monuments. That was about as hardcore as my parents got.

"We're just glad the most drastic thing you did was break the door," she said, patting me on the arm.

I thought back to the point when I had run Chompy over with my car—twice—and then to when I had stabbed Mrs. Chompy and hurled the lamp at her. Not to mention when I had drugged Junior and kicked him down the stairs.

Mh hmm, I was just going to take the rap for breaking the door and call it even. So I smiled brightly. "You're still my family. Family don't end with blood."

"That's hardly correct grammar, dear," my mother said absently, blowing her nose. "When did you start talking so garishly?"

I gave her a devilish grin, the heaviness in my chest turning light as air at the weird symmetry of it all. "Doesn't make it wrong, though," I said.

And I meant it.


	10. Riley Teaser

A/N: I may or may not be addicted to writing Riley's life. Plus, finals are next week, which means I am so close to FREEDOM! Expect more Riley shenanigans, if you so please.

So, without further ado, here is a teaser to the start of another adventure. :)

* * *

It all changed when my best friend Libby—in all her wacky unluckiness—woke up a ghost, and it started haunting her house.

The funny thing was, Libby had been swearing for years now that her house was haunted. I'd just never paid much attention to her rantings, because with Libby, it was always something.

Except, now...now I knew better. After my biological father-turned vampire-turned psychotic killer-turned kidnapper had tried to spirit me away from the great town of Eagle Point, Oregon, I most definitely knew better. I knew that the things only existing inside myths and horror stories were actually real and not to be messed with.

Sadly, Libby did not.

Last week, her parents had started renovating their ancient house, doing little things to keep the structure and integrity intact. And each day afterwards, she had excitedly updated me on every single weird thing was starting to happen. Creaking, whispers, dancing shadows.

The vampires trying to kidnap and turn me had been a wake-up call, and I had fervently tried to convince Libby that a ghost was bad news. She had blown me off in her typical Libby optimism. A ghost couldn't be bad. That was simply _inconceivable_.

Then, two nights ago, Libby had accidentally broken part of the wall or smashed a giant hole in it with some of the heavy equipment her parents were using to remodel the house. Or something like that. Her story kept changing every time. Either way, her parents had decided to just take the entire wall out, stating they'd wanted to do it for years. Of course, as soon as they started, the haunting had really kicked into gear, and Libby had finally started to believe me.

The marks helped, too. The morning after the construction started on the wall, Libby had woken up to find strange bruises on her arms. The day after that, she had sworn the antique picture frame on the wall moved. Next, it had been flickering lights and cold spots.

The fervent excitement while regaling me with daily reports had faded, turning slowly but surely to fear.

So, when Libby's dad took a nasty spill down the staircase and was staying overnight in the hospital with Libby's mom, Libby had called an emergency best friend sleepover, and I had complied.

Before heading over to Libby's, I had Googled all her reported occurrences, settling with the general consensus that it was definitely a haunting by a ghost or spirit or whatever they were called. Only, nothing I'd found would tell me how to get rid of it.

That still didn't stop me from going over, though. I'd already had my first encounter with the supernatural, and I had been alone at the time—without my family or anyone to rely on. It had been terrifying and dangerous, and there was no way I was going to abandon Libby to the same fate.

So I had come over, and I was now staring up at the front of Libby's house. Before this ghost stuff, it had always been "quaint" and "eccentric" in my mind. Now it was just "Libby's creepy-ass house."

I sighed as I walked morosely up the steps, because I really _had_ been trying to put all this monster stuff behind me. I really _had_ been trying to have a normal Senior year of high school.

But at the same time, something was churning in the pit of my stomach. It wasn't fear or revulsion, not like it had been during my first week of vampires. No, the feeling starting to grow in my stomach was worse. So much worse.

It was excitement.

Because really, there's nothing like a nice haunting to liven up your Friday nights.


End file.
